


Run with it, right?

by AlyssssaB



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Protective Steve Rogers, Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, it's gonna hurt but you're gonna like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssssaB/pseuds/AlyssssaB
Summary: What if the Hulk had never navigated his Quinjet into space? AU taking place immediately after Ultron. The Quinjet crashes down to earth and there's no lengths Natasha Romanov wouldn't go to for one particular green giant. TW: Medical crisis, language, sexual content, mentions of suicidal ideation/attempts. THANK YOU to Hailey for beta-reading and friendship (Twitter: @wakanadabucky)
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 27
Kudos: 161





	1. Crash Landing

The Quinjet dipped in the air, its left half swinging lower than its right for a moment before correcting itself. The controls were sophisticated, designed to keep the plane from crashing despite minor pilot error. The controls were not designed, however, for the hands of nine foot tall, hulking green giants with fingers too fleshy to push the autopilot button. The controls were especially not designed for giants who had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, hunched over in a cockpit built for normal sized humans.

The momentary dip slightly roused the green beast, but he didn’t last long as his chin nodded down to his chest once more. He slumped forward, one giant hand flopping down, catching the control wheel and aiming it forward, pointing the nose of the plane toward the dark sky beneath.

The shock of the plane hitting the surface jolted him awake. Moments later, water flooded in around his feet, splashing his back, pouring in with increasing force. Exhausted, yet full of sudden rage, the Hulk yelled. He threw his head up, smashing into the roof of the cockpit above him. One more giant smash with his arms and the glass and metal gave way, shattering and rending with a horrible screaming noise. Water instantly flooded in from above, drenching him and knocking him backwards. The Hulk leapt to his feet and launched himself upwards, fighting against the gushing flow.

His leap was enough to free him from the vacuum of water rushing into the Quinjet, but it wasn’t enough to launch him to the surface. His momentum petered out after a moment, the heavy force of water above him pushing him back down. He didn’t have far to go—the sandy bottom was only twenty or so feet below. As he sank, the pressure around his eyes and ears grew increasingly uncomfortable. He felt his lungs collapse inwards, all the air he had bubbling out of his nose as he sank. Even without air, he could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. There was no telltale burn, the feeling of his lungs going without oxygen. He wasn’t drowning.

He looked around. It was dark—but not pitch black. Faint shafts of light shone down from above—the water wasn’t too deep. Or cold. There wasn’t enough light to truly see the ground or any of the foliage around him, but one thing was clear: this water was tropical. There was a slight slope in the sand in front of him and the Hulk started walking up it, moving one leg laboriously in front of the other.

The heightened resistance of water paired with his exhaustion made the going tough. He lumbered forward, doggedly putting one foot in front of another until he tripped, his toe catching on some unseen obstacle in the sand. He fell forward slowly, almost lazily, the water muting the impact as he hit the ocean floor. He wanted to stay down, but after a minute or two the burn did start faintly in his lungs. He righted himself slowly, then mustered the energy to jump, high enough to break the surface of the water—perhaps some twenty-five feet above? He gasped in a new lungful of air before sinking back down to the bottom. He kept walking. Even a lungful of air couldn’t make his dense muscle mass float.

After twenty or so minutes, the sand began sloping upwards in earnest. The Hulk followed the curvature until at last, his head broke the surface. He ran the last few steps onto the beach. He made it two more steps before flopping down on the warm, fine sand and falling fast asleep.

He woke when the waves reached his toes, the gentle touch of warm water rousing him slowly. The sun shone brightly above him, high in the sky. He itched. Everywhere. Worse on his front; there was sand there, clinging to the salt from the ocean. He scratched the itches, scratched until he broke skin and they burned. He howled with the pain of it.

But howling was hard, and he was hungry. He glanced around, noting some driftwood nearby, palm trees lining the edge of the sand and some reed-like grass, then jungle. Coconuts hung on each palm tree. The Hulk grabbed one tree by its trunk and walked along the ground, bending the tree down until the coconuts were in range. He ripped the entire top off the tree, leaves, coconuts, and all, letting the empty trunk swing back up to the sky, naked.

He grabbed one of the coconuts and put it between his teeth, crunching down on it. With half in his mouth, he set to chewing, breaking down the woody fibers and enjoying the sweet flesh inside. He popped the other half in his mouth and chewed. He breathed. And as he did, images started to appear in his head.

Red hair. Swinging around, always turning away from him. A hand, tiny, reaching out. His own hand resting on top, the mottled green skin against the ivory of hers. The glide of her fingers along his wrist. . . the Hulk felt overwhelming sadness, fear, and hurt well up within him. Weakness.

“NO!” He bellowed, jumping to his feet. He could feel Banner rising inside him, trying to come out.

Bruce fought. He felt the warm air, the rays of the sun, the breeze blowing sweet tropical scents his way. He remembered Natasha kissing him, Natasha pushing him, the Hulk turning Natasha’s face off on the console of the Quinjet. . .

“NO.” Hulk demanded. Bruce replayed Natasha’s face flickering out again and fell back inside himself, unable to break through the rage of the Hulk, his own rage at the world, his fear and confusion holding him back.

He tried again twice that day. Once when the Hulk found some abandoned beach cabana; perhaps intended to become a resort or private beach villa for some rich couple to get away to? Made of bamboo on stilts perched over the water, it was an empty shell, a big bamboo deck out over the water and a bare floor within. The representation of humanity yanked Bruce back to the forefront. He remembered the air growing thinner and more difficult to breath, a metal playground with empty swings swaying and the sunset—or are those flames?—illuminating the sky a warm orange, walking towards her. . .

“NOOOOO!” The Hulk roared. He remembered gunfire. Concrete flying, motors whirring, threats incoming. Bruce was hopeless.

The second time was that night, lying on the floor in the empty cabana, banana leaves and a mountain of plucked reed grass beneath him cushioning the lumpy bamboo floor. The Hulk turned over, getting comfortable in his nest of greenery, trying not to lie on his burning skin where he had itched himself raw. He was fading off to unconsciousness, still exhausted from the ordeal the day before and the rage of it all. Bruce slipped forward, seeing his opportunity in the lull, the half consciousness of the monster. He remembered the outstretched hand, the voice whispering, “Hey big guy, the sun’s gettin’ real low. . .”. He remembered her eyes. Full of fear, looking at him expanding, growing, greening. . . the Hulk rolled over vindictively, squashing Banner back down inside.

Days passed with the Hulk in control. He smashed coconuts with his teeth and picked their fibers from his gums. He leapt into the water and emerged with a handful of fish, gathered in the split second before they could panic and scatter on his intrusion. He ate the fish raw, chewing and swallowing them, bones and everything.

He itched. He couldn’t help it, didn’t have the self-control to stop himself. The saltwater and sand were his nemesis, collecting in the creases of his elbows and knees, under his arms, between his toes. He opened sores that wouldn’t close, a constant irritation as the days grew into weeks and weeks grew into months.

Banner appeared—or tried to—four more times. Once was the first time Hulk caught and killed a shark. The second was a night when the Hulk stepped on a tree stump and bruised his foot horribly. The other two followed after that, echoing attempts for the man within to re-emerge and face the world again. The Hulk won. There was just too much rage to turn the tables. Too much fear. And perhaps a bit of relief—for letting go, for hiding, for being out of play.

So, the months stretched, staying routinely warm and sunny and tropical. A stormy season came and went, winds buffeting against the cabana Hulk came to call home. A few times the bamboo structure swayed, but it never fell into the water below. The weather grew from warm to hot, and Hulk sun-burned for the first time. His skin grew leathery—except for the sores, of course.

He lived. The rage faded in him without terror or anger or provocation—his biggest enemy now was hunger, and the island had abundant fish, fruits, and wildlife to meet his needs. The Hulk thrived. Bruce hid, partially trapped inside, partially hiding away.


	2. Routine

Natasha swiveled around in the fancy office chair, setting her steaming mug of tea down on the desk in front of her. The eye scanner immediately lit up, a pale light scanning over her pupil and opening the screen in front of her. She gently ran her thumb over the fingerprint reader in the keyboard, unlocking her file system and private operating system.

The smell of chamomile and honey floated towards her as she opened her code, opened her server, examined her data mining and archives. The programs hunted through millions of social media profiles on a daily basis, searching news websites, military communications, governmental security surveillance footage. A list of two hundred and fifty flagged items popped up for her to review. She sighed and leaned back, prepared for another long night. She had set the search parameters deliberately wide. She would rather have hundreds of false positives than even one false negative.

As she shifted her weight, a bone cracked in her neck. She kneaded the tight muscle over it with her knuckles as she clicked through images. The same tension spot as always.

"Oh my god, look at this monster we spotted today!" A girls caption read on her Instagram post, a giant turtle on a beach somewhere tropical where she was vacationing.

"Happiest place on Earth!" Another caption read, a girl posed next to a Mike Wazowski cut-out at Disneyland. Nat cursed under her breath. She must have cleared a hundred images of that cut-out by now, she really should just go back into the code and write out a function to handle it. .

She continued browsing, sipping her tea, scanning the world for anything large and green and unsightly. Nothing. Same as every night for the past nine months. She didn't even bother running her facial recognition software anymore, or trying to track his credit cards or bank withdrawals.

Her days were filled; training the powerful Wanda, the excited Sam, the hesitant, more reserved Rhodes, conversing and strategizing with Vision and Steve, putting up with Tony flitting in and out of HQ, remodeling things or dumping some new gadgets on the trainees before jetting out again. He was always eager to get back to Pepper these days.

She slipped away for weekends as frequently as she could to Clint's house. Sometimes, holding Nate, with Cooper and Lila running around wreaking havoc in the living room and Clint and Laura canoodling in the kitchen, she could pretend her life was normal. It felt nice to add to her list of identities she could take on. Domestic.

Clint had no desire to return to work. He had always been the one she could share things with; undercover experiences, odd moments of guilt, the strong desire to get back to the danger and adrenaline but the hidden, small fear with every assignment as well. His days were filled with Laura, with his kids, with farm projects and living off the land.

Steve helped her stay sane. She almost never got a chance to actually get out in the field anymore. Having her face plastered in the news and Avengers merchandise in Times Square really put a damper on most of her undercover work. She had had only three assignments since Ultron, and she could feel the disapproval for her rising in the bureaucracy with each one. Sokovia had put a bad taste in everybody's mouth, and whispers behind closed doors seemed common in every government she visited nowadays. She didn't like it much anymore either; arriving somewhere for someone else's mission, someone else's agenda. SHIELD sent other agents now, leaving her with more time on her hands at HQ than she had anticipated.

So, she trained. A warm, kind training; physically demanding yet rewarding. Nothing like what had made her. This training was to make more good in the world. To only fight when needed, to show mercy whenever possible—Natasha reveled in it. The pain, the soreness, the long demanding hours assuaged her guilt. Day by day she watched the new Avengers improve, she watched the other trainees at the facility grow more competent with their weapons, more strategic with their planning.

Every night, she returned to this office set aside for her at HQ. It was stark and barren, just a desk, a ridiculously overpriced office chair, and her equipment.

The code had taken a few weeks to write. She remembered that time without fondness; stressing over every bug, panicking that one minute later would be one minute missed online, one minute where he'd appear somewhere, in the background of a picture, in a satellite image, as a heat signature on some weather tracking device. When she finished she had breathed a sigh of relief.

Now all that was left was just personally mining through everything her software passed on to her. She was careful with every image, every article, every reading, even as it faded into monotony. She wouldn't miss him. She couldn't.

A knock on the door broke her hypnotic routine. She spun around, minimizing her windows. Steve's head was already poked in the doorway.

"Nat—what were you doing?" He asked, his eyes on the screen where a satellite reading had been moments before. It had picked up a large heat signature over a secluded forest in Northern BC. It was obviously a grizzly bear, but she had been examining the outline, hoping perhaps he was folded up, sleeping.

"Just uh, looking at some readings. For work."

"Right. . ." Steve could obviously tell she was lying. "Nat. . ."

"Steve," she threatened. She wasn't looking for a lecture.

"Sorry." He bowed his head and held his hands up in mute acknowledgement. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to grab a drink or something. Get some air. I can't remember the last time you took a day off."

"I take days off when I need them," Natasha replied, her tone measured. "Why don't you ask Sharon to get a drink? I'm sure she'd be _thrilled_ to join you," Natasha's eyes sparkled as she watched Steve's cheeks redden.

"Yeah, I don't know about that," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Never know til ya try." Natasha pushed.

"Maybe I will."

They looked at each other for a moment. Steve broadcast his concern for her like a radio signal. Nat smiled warmly—a smile always put him at ease. She knew Cap, knew how to push his buttons when he needed some pushing.

"But Nat," Steve warned, holding the door open a moment longer. He clearly wanted to say something, but didn't have the words. He scratched his neck awkwardly.

"The world isn't balanced right now," he finally started. "The military discontinued support for Sam's wings."

"That seems like the opposite of a problem," Nat smiled. "Tony can finally have his way with them. He must be thrilled."

"What I mean is, it's a delicate time. For us. For _all_ of us. It would be a bad time to. . .lose control."

Natasha gritted her teeth. "He's in there, Steve."

"He wasn't in Johannesburg."

"You know that was because Wanda got in his head. He hated himself for that."

"It doesn't matter how he felt, it's the other guy I'm worried about."

"He's our teammate. We at least owe him the effort to try and make sure he's alive."

"Just make sure that's all that effort is. He doesn't want to be found, or he would have turned the trackers on."

"It's not him that kept them off. It's the other guy. Don't go confusing the two."

"Make sure you don't either." Steve turned and left without another word. Natasha sat in the silence, her thoughts churning. He didn't want to be found. She knew that. He had wanted to not be found with her. To run. She pushed him over the edge instead. And here she was, blatantly ignoring his wishes yet again, hunting him down anyways. Why?

She didn't know. She took a sip of tea and returned back to her hunting, refusing to let herself consider the possible answers.

Hours passed in the same way they always did. Natasha slipped on her pair of blue-light glasses when the clock ticked past midnight. The extended hours staring at her screen, trying to find something in the pixels had started giving her migraines. The glasses helped sometimes.

It was 2:38 in the morning when she found him. Or rather, found a picture with a large, vibrant green _thing_ breaking through the surface of the water near an island in Indonesia. The post was on some minor Asian social networking site she wasn't too familiar with, the caption translated from Cantonese: " _Our whale watching tour guide didn't say there'd be green whales!"_

Natasha zoomed in on the image, pulling it up as large as possible, letting her software refine and zoom, refine and zoom. After a minute she was certain: there were no aquatic creatures she had ever seen with green skin and _hair_.Black hair, thick and wet, just covering the top of a very green, very humanoid ear.

She tracked the location of the image source and saved the coordinates onto her tablet. She couldn't put them into the compound's OS or she would be trackable. And she didn't want to be found.

She didn't stop in her quarters, heading straight to the Quinjet Stark had set aside for their use. She had packed a go bag when she started the hunt, and it had lived in her locker by the gym since she began this whole process. She grabbed it, leaving her locker door hanging ajar.

She didn't have a flight plan, so she radioed the air tower and faked some secret business. She knew it was exactly that kind of thing that was giving the Avengers a less-than-stellar reputation among government leaders, but in this moment she didn't care. She had her eyes set on a pair of coordinates.

It was a twenty hour flight. She already hadn't slept in eighteen hours. She prepared herself for the discomfort of sleep deprivation. She had training for this; she had handled worse in Russia. Caffeine, mental acuity exercises, and periodic stretching breaks while leaving the controls to autopilot would get her through. She had a giant to go retrieve.


	3. Into the Jungle

Nat walked in between crowded street stalls selling fruits, potatoes, grains, colorful powders and clothes. She had stopped over in a small beachfront village in southern Papua to pick up some last minute things; dried foods, extra medical supplies, and an old Walkman with a haphazard collection of classical CD's and early 2000's R&B—a lucky secondhand find.

The photo had been taken out at sea a few kilometers from Papua New Guinea. She had landed the Quinjet on the closest beach she could find. A good starting point to search from, and a chance to catch some much-needed sleep before a potential confrontation.

Nat shuddered at the thought. She didn't know who she would be facing. She didn't know which would be worse; the man or the beast. She was supposed to be calming for the big guy. Instead she had pushed him to near death and then lured him into lowering his defenses right when Ultron started shooting at them in Sokovia. . . She had a feeling he wouldn't be pleased to see her. As for Bruce. . . She didn't know how she felt about seeing him again either.

She had asked around the village about a large green thing in the water. Her passable mix of Tok Pisin, Tagalog, and English helped her give a basic description, but none of the sellers in the market knew what she was talking about. She was ready to give up when an ancient looking man in a bar claimed he had seen the green sea monster twice, always heading west, into the setting sun. He had burped and nearly fallen off his stool while saying it, but Nat chose to listen anyways. It was better than nothing.

Natasha belted herself in and pulled the jet into the air once more, facing the western sky. She toggled some switches until the heat sensor came on, a small monitor depicting heat signatures in the water below. Lots of fish, a few sharks, but no Hulks. Her fingers passed over the disabled cloaking switch and she felt her mouth twitch. She had turned off the comm unit too; she didn't want a lecture from Steve or a motivational speech from Fury. No politics. She just wanted to make sure the big guy was ok.

There was nothing for several kilometers. She was about to turn back and veer further north when she saw the island—she wouldn't have without the sun setting behind it, lighting up its silhouette. She consulted the maps and travel logs—there was a small island cluster ahead, unnamed, yet under the ownership of some Australian billionaire, according to F.R.I.D.A.Y's assessment. The main island was narrow, about ten kilometers north to south and four or five east to west. A spattering of smaller islands surrounded it on it's west and south sides. She decided to use it as a turn-around point, setting a reference for the territory she planned to search. As she approached, however, her heat sensor blinked and beeped once. There was something very large and very warm in the jungle just past the tree line on the western side of the island.

Nat felt the air leave her lungs and bit her lip apprehensively as her sensor systems locked onto it, scanning the size, temperature, and vital signs. F.R.I.D.A.Y's voice piped up: "Dr. Banner, identity confirmed."

"That's not Dr. Banner," Natasha disagreed. "Not yet."

She steered the jet towards the northern end of the island and touched down softly on a wide swath of sand, a few kilometers away from where he was. No reason to risk the jet if he was still green.

She locked her bracelets on and checked her sidearms—all fully loaded, sliding easily. She had oiled them freshly the day before leaving, an example for Wanda in case she ever needed one—ironic as that was.

As the belly of the Quinjet opened up, a blast of warm air flowed in, lush, vibrant green scents riding on it. Natasha pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck—the humidity was already making it cling to her skin, and she had a good amount of hiking to do to get to the western shore. The sun set the world ablaze around her as she walked, sending fiery red and orange streaks into the dusky blue above. She headed south, into the tropical forest.

The jungle wasn't too dense for the first hundred yards, then it thickened up and forced Nat to backtrack to the beach and walk the long way, circling around the perimeter of the island, never getting far from the water. She was partially grateful; navigating back to the jet would be easy now.

She heard him before she saw him. The breaking of trees, panicked cawing of birds and hooting of monkeys tipped her off. He was deeper in the jungle than she had gone yet, further than she could see from where she stood on the beach. The density of the trees wasn't as much an obstacle to him, she guessed.

She stood and listened, squinting to try and see into the darkness. Perhaps this had been a mistake. She could walk back to the jet, turn on the comm unit, tip Steve off. Maybe he would keep it quiet, let her calm him down, talk with him before bringing in SHIELD. . . She shook it off. She knew Steve. It would never happen.

She heard another crashing, splintering sound, a little bit closer. He must be breaking trees. _No time like the present_. She waited until the sound calmed—maybe he was eating? Then she called out.

"Hey, big guy."

Complete stillness. It seemed as though even the birds had abandoned their sunset melodies, pausing and holding their breath with her.

He let out a deafening roar. Every bird within a kilometer took off in a panic to the sky. A final moment of silence, and then the jungle exploded with noise as he took off towards her. Natasha stood her ground, waiting for him to emerge from the trees. She wanted him to see her, wanted to give him a chance to recognize her.

She saw his eyes first, glinting yellow, then his face as he swung out of the trees. He was mad. Seething, hideously mad. Had he been that pissed before, or was it her voice that had triggered that ugly rage? They locked eyes, and all Natasha could see in his was hatred. He recognized her alright. He roared once more, then charged.

"Oh goody," Nat whispered to herself. She waited one more second, letting him get closer before rolling off to her left and dodging a swipe from his massive green hand. He roared in frustration, skidding away until he was ankle-deep in the ocean. Natasha pulled out her pistol and fired off three shots at his face. He spat out one of the bullets and roared again, heading towards her. She holstered her gun, cursing herself for even drawing it in the first place—why did she think that would help?

She twisted her bracelet and pointed her fist at him. Right as he was about to bring his fist down on her, she fired one of her wrist units—a new taser, courtesy of Tony. He had warned her that it would kill a man—she had never intended to use it on one. The original intent was for aliens, any potential Chitauri re-appearances or something of the like. This was just an unfortunate perk.

The taser hit the Hulk in the chest and downed him. Natasha barely had time to roll out of the way before he hit the sand with a thud. He convulsed twice, roaring loudly before dragging himself to his feet, even more enraged. Natasha was already halfway to the trees by then—her only hope was cover, high ground, and to get a brief moment of respite to try and talk to him.

The palms were no good, long and skinny and impossible to climb. They wouldn't stand up to him anyways, he could bend them like twigs. She could hear his footsteps thudding in the sand behind her as she ran. She fired another taser off over her shoulder before twisting a setting on the bracelet, hearing him crash into the foliage. As the jungle thickened the trees did too. There, ahead in the rainforest, she could see a large, dark-wooded tree.

Right as the Hulk was about to swipe at her heels, she fired her bracelet at a large overhanging branch and leapt—a climbing line burst forth and spun around the branch, swinging her out of his reach. She landed agilely on another branch, crouching while the climbing line retracted into her bracelet again. She wasted no time leaping up a few more branches before bothering to glance down. She reeled slightly at how high she was; easily forty feet in the air. It almost didn't feel high enough.

He glowered at her from the base of the tree. He punched the trunk in rage and frustration. He jumped once, trying to claw his way up her, then slid back down to the ground. He grabbed at a low hanging branch on his next jump, but it bent and lowered him back to the ground. He tried to gouge his fingers into the trunk, but the wood was too hard, refusing to yield to his clawing. He gave up on trying to climb and instead tried to rip the tree from the ground, hugging the trunk and heaving with all his might. Natasha watched from above, heart pounding. Every vein stood out on his shoulders and his neck with the sustained effort. The tree didn't give. He tried again. Still no dice. He looked up at her and roared again, howling his rage.

"Yeah, I don't think this went how either of us wanted it to, huh?" Nat chuckled. She sat on the branch, peering down at him. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She tried to mask her terror, her fear. She was trapped up there without food or water. He could keep her up there as long as he wanted to. He showed no signs that he might want to let her down any time soon. He also showed no signs of Banner. Just rage. She couldn't fight that, not for long.

Instead, she put on a smile. The winsome type, the one that let the guys in and made them feel like they shared some special secret with her. She stretched it over her face, quashing down the anxiety and fear. Time for that later. Hulk still scowled below, grunting and catching his breath. This was her moment.

"Hey big guy," she began slowly. The words felt fake in her mouth. "Sun's gettin' real low,"

He looked at her—was that confusion she saw?

Before she knew what she was doing, she slipped down one branch lower, then another. She tried not to look down too much as she went, the height dizzying without a line attached. She was nearly in his reach now. He kept panting, watching her uncertainly.

"It's been a long day," she near-whispered, her voice husky. He watched her as she lifted one hand. She hated that it was trembling, but she couldn't stop it. She extended it nonetheless, palm facing him. He lifted his, not quite able to reach her. She slipped one branch closer, in reach now. His mammoth hand wasn't shaking at all as it moved towards her. She turned her hand, offering it palm up. He stepped back, surprised by the sudden movement, but then turned his own, resting it on hers. She smiled—the battle was won. She touched his wrist with her other hand, dragging her finger down his palm.

He lurched backwards, shuddering, beginning to shrink. An unearthly noise came out of his mouth—a keening, howling ululation. Natasha's brow creased and she leaned back against a branch. He had never done that before, never made that sound when he came down.

The beast lurched into the tree trunk, then to the ground. He shrank one moment and then blew up again the next, bigger even than he had been when they fought. Nat pulled herself back up on the branch slowly, once more out of his reach as he fell to the ground and began crawling away from her.

He had never stayed green this long before—maybe the transition was more painful after so much time? Nat clung to the branch and watched, powerless to help as he howled. In one moment, she saw Banner's face appear fully—he looked at her and took her breath away with the anguish in his eyes. Then the Hulk was back, and it was just rage. Or was that still Banner?

He stood and ripped up bushes and threw them at the tree trunk, spraying Natasha with dirt. He fell to the ground and rolled into the wet earth he had just exposed, continuing to howl, to contort himself, his arms and legs jerking. Natasha had never seen the two sides fight so brutally before. He ripped at his own chest, clawing at himself, punching and hitting the air around him.

After what felt like hours but was perhaps only a minute or so, the Hulk seemed to win whatever internal battle they had been waging. Or had he? He was still huge and green, but he seemed subdued somehow, unhappy. He lay on the ground, a heaving green mass in a patch of freshly-churned, damp earth. He punched the ground once, a plaintive expression of frustration or anger. He stood slowly, shoulders heaving, and looked back at Natasha with loathing before disappearing into the trees, crashing and splintering away from her.

Natasha sat on the branch, listening to the sound of her heart pounding, the roaring of blood in her ears, the buzzing of the mosquitos, the night-time sounds of the jungle chirping and cricketing and humming around her. It was a deafening silence. _What the fuck?_


	4. That's Gotta Hurt

Natasha spent the night in the tree. She didn't know if he was going to come back and she didn't trust her wobbly knees to carry her all the way back to the Quinjet. Plus, he might follow her, and if he wrecked the jet she didn't know what she would do. She had some safeguards in place—a small tracker on her belt she could activate if needed, a note hidden in her quarters at HQ in a place Steve might find on his third pass or so, a timed alert on her OS if she didn't log in for a long enough period. It had been a while since she had jumped so recklessly into a mission. Scratch that—she had never thrown herself into something so recklessly before.

She lay in the crook of two branches for hours before sleep took her. Her body was exhausted—she felt ashamed. The fight hadn't been long, hadn't even been that difficult. She was just holding so much tension because she was—what, invested? She shook her head, clearing the thought.

Was it worth it to try again? Clearly Bruce—or was it the Hulk?—had tried to transition, tried to swap the lead. Something had stopped him. Natasha remembered the look she saw in his eyes during the struggle, the anguish. She slammed her fist into the tree, just once, holding her self-loathing at bay.

She flashed back to the helicarrier. It felt like decades ago. The first time they had worked together. She had felt her hair stand on end even being in the same room with him. Everybody treated him like a ticking time bomb, the uncertainty and fear a price they had to pay for Banner's genius. Other than Tony, of course. He was the asshole unafraid to poke the sleeping bear, to play with fire. He was also the only one who had treated Bruce like a human and actually worked with him. She couldn't imagine how that must have made him feel, to have everyone so scared. And yet, she had been.

Terror, when they dropped through the floor of the lab after Clint had attacked under Loki's possession. How she had been trapped by a metal girder, watching Bruce fight within himself. She had been panicked. She felt the same terror lurk now in her stomach. In the years since, she had come to know him, to care for him, to trust that he wouldn't lose his cool. She saw everything he did to remain calm, to breeze through, to maintain the tightest, strictest control possible over every aspect of himself that made him human.

Those were the parts she had tried to keep whole. Their missions to flush out Hydra had been instrumental in that. He didn't even want to go at the beginning, but his presence made the difference against heavy artillery. He had been miserable for those initial missions, recon and probing. He would sit anxiously on the jet as they traversed the globe, turned inside himself, miserable. He never wanted to talk to them, never offered so much as a comment on anything unless it was related to his lab work with Tony.

The first time they took a smaller base and he stayed back in the jet, it seemed to be a relief to everybody on the team. No unpredictable green monster in the field, and no need to budget thirty or forty minutes to take him down afterward. They had gotten back on the jet and on the flight back, he was an entirely different person.

He joked with Tony about some nuclear undergraduate disaster, possibly the first time Nat had ever heard him laugh. He talked with the whole team rather than sitting with his head hanging, wringing his hands. For the first time, he wasn't beating himself up over what had happened—or almost had. That warm, confident, joking personality was so starkly different from the anxious wreck Natasha had always seen him as before. She wanted to see more of it—and their missions with him going green seemed to be counter to that goal.

That was what inspired her to suggest the meditation. She guided him through it every morning at Stark Tower—Avengers tower, now. Their days were spent in strategy and research for the next raid with the whole team, but every morning, they had a safe space, an hour alone together. The association had built slowly; her voice, soothing him, tied to the breathwork and peace of the dimmed-out yoga studio on the 44th floor.

It was nearly two years after the Battle of New York that the breathwork came out into the field with them for the first time. It was a base in Austria, in the foothills of the Alps. The base had some heavy missile launchers that they needed something big and indestructible to go destroy—there were too many for Tony to fly in solo, their range was too far for Clint, and Thor was taking care of the tanks down below with Steve.

Bruce had been his regular anxious self on the way over until Natasha sat with him and started the breathwork. He had tried to stop her, claimed that calming him down ahead of time might mean he couldn't get mad enough when the time came.

"Performance anxiety?" she had teased him. The shade of red he turned almost matched her hair.

It had worked, though. Rather than wringing his hands and twisting his stomach in knots, he had focused on her right up until the moment he ran into gunfire, triggering the Hulk with danger rather than rage. Afterwards, Nat had approached him on the stone bulwark of the base where he was smashing one of the missile launchers into bits.

The Hulk had roared at her and she was ready to signal Clint to fire his tranq arrow from two hundred yards away where he was lying ready. He told her later he nearly did, based off that roar alone—the tranquilizers Bruce and Tony had developed together were effective, but still took longer to kick in than they should have, and Clint would need the extra moment for them to save Nat. But the roar hadn't turned into a charge. The Hulk seemed bewildered that someone would approach him in peace. He let go surprisingly quickly, and for the first time, Natasha was able to go to Bruce and hold him when he came down, shivering and exhausted.

He told her afterwards he didn't like that, didn't like her seeing him when he came down. She hadn't pushed it, allowing him to stagger off and take a few moments to collect himself every time after that.

And slowly, the bond grew. He trusted her with the Hulk. Slowly, he trusted all of them, mission by mission, month by month. They had a flow, a rhythm, one that was built on the mutual trust between him and Natasha. And never did she let on that that trust felt like a bowstring, pulled taut between them, ready to release and launch them into a terrifying and unknown territory at any second. The confusing mix of professional and personal was hard to navigate.

She remembered standing close to him at Barton's house after Wanda had decimated them that first time. The smell of his aftershave, his curly hair still dripping from his shower, his hand covering hers next to his face. . . The memory seemed to open a gaping hole in her, allowing her fear to penetrate her mind. The weakness she had allowed herself was coming back to bite her. She slept, finally, but it was interrupted, tense sleep.

The morning dawned with raucous noise all around her—monkeys hooting, insects slithering and buzzing and chirping all around. Nat stood and stretched, wrenching her neck through her range of motion, ignoring the tightness and spasms and pain. No time for that.

In the light of day, she could see the trail of wreckage from where they had fought the night before and where the Hulk had run afterwards. She paused. She could follow the destruction from their chase out to the beach, track back up north to where her Quinjet and supplies were. Or she could follow the other trail, off to wherever he may be, and try again.

She lowered herself down the branches of the tree she had spent the night in and then dropped the last few meters to the ground. She landed with a groan, then walked once around the massive tree. It was a lucky find, strong and set apart enough from the foliage around it that she had been truly protected. She knocked against the trunk once. It hurt her knuckle—the wood was hard and resonant.

She saw a small trickle of water nearby and finally allowed herself to feel her thirst—it would have been unproductive before, when there was nothing she could do about it. She pressed a button on her bracelet and a small compartment in her belt opened up, freeing a small water purifying tablet. She grabbed a wide green leaf from a plant nearby and rolled it into a cone, dipping it into the small stream and allowing it to fill before dropping the tiny tablet in and drinking deeply. She'd have to thank Stark for some of the additions he'd made to her suit, as much as she hated to admit it.

The water was enough of a respite to convince her—she had to find Bruce. Or whatever was left of him. Other creature comforts could wait until she made sure he was ok.

She set off down the pathway of wreckage; splintered trees and deep muddy footprints making an easy trail for her to follow. He had run straight towards the center of the island before veering right, back towards the western shore. Even with him having paved the way for her, the going was painfully slow, thick underbrush and deep mud making every step painstaking. After an hour, Natasha emerged to the beach once more, further south yet still on the western face of the island. She shielded her eyes from the bright sun overhead and scanned the beach. There—off to her right, she saw a spindly structure with some sort of shape in front. The bright sunlight was making it quiver and dance in her eyes, so she walked closer, sticking to the tree line.

It was an old beach cabana, abandoned by the looks of it, lifted on stilts over the water, with a ramp up from the beach. He was lying in front of it, prone.

Natasha fought her urge to run to him and make sure he was ok. She would have had no issue doing that before Sokovia. It had been almost a year now, and it seemed like some things had changed.

She sat in the cover of the tree line and watched him, thinking. A mango fell from a tree nearby with a thud. Nat retrieved it from the sand, pulled out one of her knives and started cutting off bite sized chunks to snack on while she waited.

Should she approach again? He had started to come down last night. Even after failing, he didn't try to hurt her again. He didn't try to stick around, either. He left. He fled.

She knew she had to try. Why was she here otherwise? Still, she waited. She couldn't force herself to move from her spot, from relative safety. She grew more concerned as the day went on and he didn't move. Finally, in the early evening, he roused himself. He rose and stretched and walked into the ocean, letting out a hiss as he waded into the water. When he was at waist depth, he dived under the surface, emerging a moment later with a fistful of something—seaweed? Fish? Both.

Nat watched impassively as he shoved it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing easily. If anything, she was relieved he had found a way to eat. She hoped he hadn't been drinking salt water. She didn't know what that would do to Bruce when he came back.

After diving in twice more, the Hulk sat on the shore and began itching. He groaned as he scratched, clearly in pain but unable to stop. Natasha cringed. She had been about ready to approach and make herself known, but his obvious frustration kept her at bay.

Eventually he stopped, sitting and facing the water. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't scan the horizon looking for anything or anyone. It was disconcerting. Nat wasn't used to seeing a peaceful, passive Hulk. He was usually only around when shit hit the fan.

The moment seemed as calm as it might get, so Nat slipped away from the trees and out onto the sand. He didn't see her until she was only fifteen yards away. She held her hands up and stopped in her tracks.

"I don't want to fight you," she began hesitantly. "I don't think you want to fight me either."

The Hulk turned and looked her up and down. He grunted once, but didn't move from his spot.

"It's been a while. Things are different now, aren't they? I'm not going to pretend they aren't. I'm not that dumb." she looked him in the eye. She took a step towards him and he didn't react, didn't move. Any closer and this would be a suicide mission if it didn't work. Every warning bell in her body was going off, yet Nat stepped closer anyways.

"I missed you," she continued.

The Hulk let out a huff of air.

"I know. I didn't deserve to. Sorry."

He grunted, stepping away from her. Nat continued creeping forward. He stopped beneath the bamboo floor of the cabana.

"Hey big guy," she murmured.

He let out a rumbling growl, then plopped to the ground. She stood and watched, but he didn't move again. She approached, holding her hand out. He wasn't even looking at her, just dejectedly looking at his feet, his head hanging low. She walked around his legs and ever so gently laid her hand on his arm—the skin was broken and open, oozing green liquid. She forced herself to not move her hand away, to not think about how he had gotten like that. He flinched at the touch. He turned away from her, and even as he shifted away she watched the transformation begin.

His tattered, nearly destroyed pants seemed to grow around him. His shoulders fell forward, his body toppling over in the sand. She watched it finish, the monster seeming to roll in on himself until all that was left was Bruce, curled in fetal position, facing away from her. She waited a second to make sure it had really happened, it was really him, it wasn't some trick by the monster about to return. It wasn't.

She rushed forward and knelt beside him, hesitating before putting a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then let out a wracking sob, gasping for air. The skin on his back was mottled with sores, open and oozing a clear liquid. Some of them bled.

"Bruce," she breathed, taking in the sight of him. He groaned, rolling away from her over onto his knees.

"You're scaring me here," she touched his back and he cringed, flopping onto his side and weakly slapping at her hand.

"Get away," he moaned.

"Fat chance."

She inspected the rest of his body. What she saw was terrifying—the sores were on his back, his chest, at his elbows and knees, trailing up and down his arms and legs. His feet were the worst, split open, bloody and raw, She had never seen so much damage come back with him into his human form before. The Hulk usually bore the brunt of it, an impenetrable, indestructible fortress. The fact that _he_ had been bleeding too—she had always watched him heal so quickly. How was the damage so extensive?

Before she had a chance to look closer, Bruce doubled over and heaved, then heaved again. Nothing came up, but a guttural, clicking sound deep inside him made it seem as though something definitely needed to. He laid there a moment, then heaved again, again with no result.

"Bruce, I need to get you to the jet," she spoke calmly, trying not to let on how frightened she was. Wounds she could handle, but something internal? That was a whole other story. She had no idea what the Hulk had put in his body.

"Leave me alone," Bruce whispered, trying to crawl away. He made it no more than a foot before slumping down again, groaning. Natasha recalculated quickly in her head. No way was he going to make it to the jet—she'd have to hike there and fly it back. How far of a hike was it? Would he make it that long on his own?

"Ok, I'm going to go get some supplies to patch you up," she began.

"Nat," he whispered.

"Yes?"

"Go away."

She sat back on her heels and bit her lip.

"I deserve that," she acquiesced. "Now honestly, let's get you up into that cabana," She reached out to help him stand, but he flung an elbow out to try and stop her. It was almost comical, so slow and weak. Nat leaned slightly to the side so it brushed off her hip.

"Bruce, let me get you into the cabana. We can talk then."

He tried to respond but heaved again instead. A gurgling noise came from his throat and he began coughing viciously. Nat watched helplessly as he hacked up a pink piece of something—she didn't want to know what. He hacked again and a small spatter of blood hit the sand next to his head.

"Ok, I'm done asking nicely," Natasha linked her arms under his armpits and lifted. She half-dragged him up the ramp into the cabana, his feet stumbling and flopping uselessly beneath him. She was worried by how light he was too—the Hulk had seemed healthy, why was Bruce so skinny?

She was surprised when she got to the doorway of the cabana to see a giant nest of palm fronds, and reeds in the corner. She didn't know why—it made sense the Hulk would sleep there. It was away from threats and sheltered from the elements, which would be ideal for the big guy. She settled Bruce down in the middle of the hulk-sized bed, stepping back worriedly and watching him curl in on himself, pathetically small in the oversized space. He shivered once despite the tropical air. She jumped from the window down to the beach below and grabbed the ruined pants from the sand. They were beyond repair, but they'd do for cover until she had the jet there. When she got back up into the cabana, Bruce had hacked up some more pink stuff.

She wasted no time, covering him with the disgusting pants, feeling his forehead once, half to get his temperature and half in a vague need to convince herself he was real, and then took off north up the beach. Before she had planned on walking, but this was an emergency. She shook her head and settled into a ground covering yet sustainable jog. She hated jogging. She hated the thought of losing him more.

She was back in just over an hour, still huffing in her seat as she settled the Quinjet down onto the sand about thirty meters from the cabana. She grabbed the first aid kit from inside. Back inside the cabana Bruce had made more of a mess—he was half out of the bedding, a small puddle of bile and pink material interspersed with small amounts of blood next to him. He hunched on the floor, his eyes clenched shut, sweating ferociously.

"Oh c'mon now, why'd you go moving on me?" Nat joked half-heartedly. She set down the kit and opened it. She grabbed a long metal rod from inside—one of Tony's newer inventions inspired by Dr. Cho Nat clicked it on and then swept the wand over Bruce's midsection.

"Subject movement detected. Please hold still." F.R.I.D.A.Y's voice cascaded from the instrument. Bruce stopped moving. "Multiple skin lesions detected."

"Yeah, got that much, what's going on inside though," Nat muttered impatiently.

"Major obstructions detected in small intestine, large intestine, and stomach. Minor perforations. Performing diagnostics."

Nat held her breath and watched Bruce convulse once more.

"Treatment rendered. Swallow this." The instrument opened at the base near Natasha's hand and a small pill came out, held on a tiny lever.

"Don't you think he's kind of past the Tylenol stage of this one?" Nat remarked caustically.

"This is a nano-robot intended to artificially metabolize obstructions with minimal damage to bodily systems. It will disperse nano-particles to facilitate internal repairs." F.R.I.D.A.Y's calculated voice had never sounded so good.

"Hear that big guy? You're gonna be ok," Nat smiled as she plucked the pill from the wand. She held it in front of Bruce's face, but his eyes were still glued shut. "You gotta swallow it."

Bruce shook his head noiselessly.

"So what, you're tryna die on me?"

"Shoulda left—" he broke down hacking. Another pink piece of something came up—Natasha was increasingly worried that he was coughing up parts of his own lung.

"Take the fucking pill, Banner."

He waited for a second before shoving his hand out in front of him. Nat placed the pill in his palm and watched as he tossed it in his mouth and swallowed with great effort.

He rolled over back into the center of the mattress and curled up, facing away from her, showing her his skinny, sore-covered back. The vertebra stood out on his spine like braille.

She watched him like that for hours as the sun set. Slowly his breathing calmed. He didn't retch again. His skin warmed from the dusky grey color it had been. He was out cold. Nat took the chance to pop open the medical kit and apply some anti-bacterial ointment to the worst of the sores that were in reach. She didn't want to touch him without consent, but they were gaping and open and looked like they were begging for infection, especially the ones on his feet. She'd have to try and clean them later, when the pain of antiseptic wouldn't wake him.

Her ministrations done, she returned the kit to the jet and retrieved some clothes for him—just a few things she had set aside in one of the cargo compartments. Just in case.

Back in the cabana, she used an old towel to wipe away what he had coughed up and laid the clothes out next to him, a peace offering of modesty and respect.

She returned to the jet, ate a pre-prepared ration, and then tried to decide where to sleep. If she was in the jet, there was no promise he wouldn't try to slip out once he woke up. His feet would make it near impossible, but she wouldn't put it past him to try and hurt himself anyways. He seemed so upset with her, she didn't want to enter his space and sleep in the cabana either.

She decided on the front stoop, where the ramp led up to the cabana from the beach. She grabbed her sleeping roll and headed up. He'd have to step over her to get down to the beach, and she didn't think he was up for that.

The moon overhead was nearly full. She looked at it, examining its craters as she drifted off.


	5. Skeletons in Your... Er...

Bruce rolled over. Every muscle in his body shrieked, and a sensation deep in his stomach felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside out. He curled around his midsection, trying to hold himself together. The feeling slowly passed, leaving a heavy ache in its place. His head felt like it weighed a ton. Still, he lifted it, scanning where he was.

It looked like a hut of some sort—it was vaguely familiar. The floor was bamboo, and he was lying on a giant mat of grass and leaves, surprisingly soft and dry. Next to him was a set of clothes—trousers and a white v-neck. The shirt smelled like her. He sat up quickly and doubled over in pain from the sudden movement. Where was she? He searched the room before catching sight of her red hair, right outside the door.

Guarding him. Of course. Out of range in case he exploded again. He sank back down, unable to hold himself up as something shifted inside his stomach. The nausea was quick and intense—he barely had time to lurch towards the window and stick his head out before he felt his stomach contract, forcing its contents up and out. He watched in confusion as what looked like a fish skeleton fell to the sand, fifteen feet below. He tried not to think of why that was there before heaving again. A searing pain scraped up his esophagus and through his throat before launching forward. It looked like a bone, almost needle-like. He tasted blood from where it had cut the back of his throat. He swallowed that, the bitter acid from his stomach driving the pain home more.

With the nausea gone, the burning in his feet took over his senses. He slowly lowered himself back to the ground and examined them—they looked pretty gruesome, the heels split so deep it looked like you could see bone in some parts. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and trying to separate himself from the pain.

After a minute his sense of propriety overcame him—he was completely naked. He cringed mentally at the thought of Natasha helping him up to the cabana like that. He crawled over to the clothes and pulled the pants on. The sensation of the fabric moving over his feet left him hissing—there was no way to avoid it. He sat and breathed again, trying to block it out.

"I didn't want to tend to those without your consent." Natasha's voice took him by surprise. Instantly he was transported back, back to Avengers tower, to a red-lipped intrigue of a woman behind a bar, so confident and so tentative all at the same time. He shook the image away.

"Where are we?" Bruce asked.

"Somewhere in Indonesia, west of Papua New Guinea. I can get the exact coordinates from the jet."

"Don't." Bruce turned away and laid back down on the bed.

"Bruce. . ."

"Leave me alone."

"Let me just tend to your feet, clean them so they don't get infected."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Bruce, they look painful."

"I SAID, LEAVE ME ALONE!" He bellowed suddenly, sitting up. He winced and held his stomach, but glared at Natasha anyways. She cowered, crouching in the doorway, her eyes wide. She was afraid. Of course. They stayed there for a moment, both surprised by the outburst.

"I'm sorry," Natasha finally broke the silence. "Let me leave the supplies and if you feel up to it, you can give it a shot." She looked dubiously at his feet—there was no way he'd be able to handle the pain doing it himself.

She padded out and left him. He laid back down. Before he knew it, he was crying. It was as though every ounce of serotonin and dopamine had left his body, abandoned him. The pain radiating from his feet paired with the despair sitting in the pit of his stomach washed over him like a tidal wave of grief.

The disorientation when he came back was always bad, but he had never felt so foggy before. So removed from the world he was rejoining. How many people had died by his hand in Sokovia? In Johannesburg? Wherever he was now? He had no way of knowing. How had he gotten here? Where were the others? His last clear memory was of the fortress in Sokovia. And she had pushed him. . . He rasped at his eyes, trying to dry them ferociously before she came back. He wouldn't let her see him vulnerable again. Ever.

He didn't hear her return, of course. She was too quiet for that, too well trained. He jumped when she spoke behind him.

"Here ya go. Antiseptic, gauze, tweezers in case anything is in there, more gauze and ointment and bandages. I brought all the good stuff," She smiled wryly, setting the kit down next to him before walking across the room and sitting against the opposite wall. Bruce rolled over slowly and attempted to sit up again. Something ground inside his stomach, protesting the movement, pulling inside him in a strange and unsettling way.

"That nanobot should be finished soon," Nat said hesitantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about that when I started talking to the other guy right after he ate. I didn't know that he wouldn't have finished digesting yet."

"Go," Bruce muttered. "Get out of here."

"No."

"Nat. . . just leave me alone. Get out."

"I know you're mad—"

"Mad doesn't even begin to cover it. No, mad isn't even right," Bruce shook his head in disbelief. "Just get out."

"I'm not leaving."

"Go!" He sputtered, feeling something in his stomach twist again. He groaned and grabbed at it, toppling to his side as something popped inside him. He knew she heard it too. He vomited again then, right onto the floor, a mix of blood and fish guts, the stink of the it filling the cabana.

"I'll go get another towel," Nat whispered when he finally settled. "I'll also get you some water."

For once, Bruce was silent. He was too weak to protest.

She returned with a water bottle and set it down next to where he was lying. She swabbed the bamboo until the mess was gone and tossed the towel out the window, onto the sand below. She returned and sat across the small room from him. He didn't try to sit up again. She didn't offer to help. He lay on his back, not bothering with the water, staring at the palm-frond laden roof.

"You should drink," she finally broke.

"I trusted you. I opened my life to you." He lay there for a moment processing. "You pushed me into a pit."

"Yes."

"We had an understanding. Tenuous, maybe, but an understanding."

"We had a lullaby," she whispered.

"You ruined it." He muttered.

They sat there in silence for a while.

"How long was I out?" he asked, the anger momentarily gone from his voice.

She sat there for a moment, not responding. He turned to look at her. "That bad, huh?"

"Nine months."

He blew air through his teeth, looking back at the ceiling. After a few more minutes, he broke the silence.

"I'm going to vomit again."

"Please let me help you."

Bruce shuddered once, but didn't protest as she helped lift him, supported some of his weight so he could vomit out the window, into the incoming tide. He grasped at the windowsill, his muscles straining to stay upright, even with her help, to relieve the weight from his raw feet. After, she lowered him so he was cradled against her. He was tense, every muscle taut in his body. She smelled like sweat and shampoo and _her_. She held the water bottle to his lips and he finally drank. He could feel every inch the water travelled down into him. It was painful, but it was also a relief. As soon as he had finished drinking, he said "lay me down please."

Natasha didn't protest, didn't say a word, just lifted him ever so gently and scooted out from behind him, resting him back on the bed. He tried to stay awake, to stay weary and watch her, but he couldn't keep his eyes open. Natasha sat across the room and eyed his feet resignedly as he slept.

He hadn't let her tend them. If they went much longer they were definitely going to become infected. She figured the chances of him agreeing to get on the jet and leave were slim to none with the way he was treating her, even with his feet being in such bad shape. He'd probably rather go septic than allow her to fly him to a doctor. The question of why injuries had come back with him from the supposedly invulnerable Hulk was bubbling in the back of her mind, but it meant little at that moment.

She sighed. There was nothing to be done for it. She looked at his sleeping face, heavy circles beneath his eyes, sweat at his temples. He didn't have much of a beard coming in, surprisingly. A heavy layer of stubble, sure, but she had anticipated that in nine months he'd have a full beard. Something about the Hulk must have kept it suppressed. Why suppress his facial hair but pass on these awful sores? And why was he so skinny? From what she could remember, the Hulk was supposed to be invulnerable, healing whatever illnesses or injuries Banner received, protecting his weak human body.

She dismissed the thoughts for the moment. They did no good. She didn't want to wake him, but those feet needed tending.

She moved over to his legs and laid his feet in her lap.

"I know you're not going to like this, and I know I said I'd ask for consent, but I guess I'm just really good at breaking promises I make to you." She set up the gauze and antiseptic before giving his leg a gentle shake.

"Huh?" he came to groggily. "What?"

"I have to take care of your feet. They're going to get infected."

"Ok."

"It's going to hurt. A lot."

He didn't say anything, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists instead. When the stinging solution touched his skin he let out a guttural yelp, kicking into the air. Nat's reflexes were quicker than him, however, and she grabbed his ankle and secured his foot with her arm while she cleaned. He bit his lip. He knew it had to happen.

Despite the pain, he didn't scream or make another sound, not even at the worst parts. Afterwards, she spread a thick layer of antibiotic cream on every split and sore, packed the worst with gauze, and wrapped it all up with lengths of white bandage.

"Can I sleep now?" he asked sardonically.

"Don't let me stop you," she set his feet back down on the bed and retreated.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he chuckled grimly. He was asleep in seconds.

She sat against the far wall and thought about that. She had stopped him from sleeping? She tried not to smile as she thought of the reasons why. She quickly sobered when she realized that none of them were relevant anymore.

She sat there for hours and watched him. Watched him sleep, watched him breathe, watched his chest rise and fall. It finally hit her as she sat there watching: _she had found him._ She had never felt so tense, yet so relieved in her life. Every breath he took she'd hold her own, waiting for his chest to rise again, slowly convincing herself this was actually happening. He was ok. He was here. She had found him. The rest, she could figure out later.


	6. Heal and Snip

"The nausea would pass if you ate something."

"No."

His face was ashen. After a several hour long nap, he had woken and lain there, stubbornly refusing to let her help him walk to the forest to relieve himself, or to lift his head and drink any water, or to do anything to alleviate his symptoms.

"I'll sit here and watch you suffer if that's what you really want, but it's not the best revenge in the world. I've seen worse."

That was a lie. Nat had seen all sorts of bad, but this was its own category. Gamma radiation monster induced indigestion? That was a new one. He held out for five more minutes.

"Fine," he relented.

She was impressed with how long he had lasted. He must be really mad at her. Fifteen minutes later and she was lowering him back into the bed, his teeth gritted with the pain of putting weight on his feet.

"You know you could just stay in the jet," Nat pointed out.

"Rather not," he muttered, turning away again.

She left and made him a soft gruel in the jet, a mix of some boiled grain from the market with a bit of mashed mango, stirred with water into a thin liquid. She hoped it would be easy on his stomach after the last twenty four hours. She carried it back into the cabana in a wooden bowl she had bought from the market as well.

"This isn't going to be anything you're used to, but try a spoonful and see if you can keep it down."

She knelt in front of him and held out a spoonful of the orange colored gruel. He just looked at her, his gaze dripping sarcastic disapproval. Even she had to admit it was a bit much, spoon feeding. She shrugged and put the spoon back in the bowl, proffering it to him. He took it gingerly and sniffed at the contents. He set the bowl down and covered his mouth for a moment.

"Don't think too much. One mouthful, swallow without tasting. Just see if your stomach can handle it."

"I already know it can't."

"Won't know til you try," she teased.

He glared at her before picking the bowl up once more, spooning some into his mouth, and swallowing with great effort. He immediately set the bowl down again, covering his mouth and closing his eyes. Nat sat back on her heels next to the bed, ready to assist if he needed to vomit again.

Twenty minutes later and half the bowl was gone. Nat took it as a promising sign. She decided to push her luck a bit more.

"Do you remember anything?" she asked. It was the first time she had tried talking with him about anything other than his recovery.

"Like you pushing me off a cliff? I remember that."

"Anything after. Since then."

Bruce took a moment to actually consider. He had a vague recollection of a metal playground, newspapers blowing around his feet—still green. Red—her hair. He always remembered her hair. He remembered sunlight, hot. He remembered a heavy sensation, like being underwater, but he didn't need air.

"Not much."

"But some? That's improvement," Natasha began excitedly. The connection between Bruce's and Hulk's memories had been something they were zeroing in on before Ultron happened.

" _No._ " Bruce replied emphatically. "There's no _improvement_ now, not anymore. Not ever."

"Bruce, look—"

"Please stop. This conversation is moot."

"Can I just—"

" _Natasha_. No. Can you even—do you have any idea what this feels like?"

"Well, I've never vomited up a fish skeleton before, so. . ." her eyes sparkled. She was trying so hard.

"You say it's been nine months. _Months_. Gone. Sokovia doesn't feel like yesterday, but it doesn't feel like nine freaking months. I could have done anything in that time, I could have killed. . ." he trailed off, closing his eyes, leaning back against the wall of the cabana.

"You didn't."

"What?"

"Kill anybody. I was checking."

"Checking on me? Oh great. Great."

"No, not checking on you, I—"

"What, Natasha? What—what were you doing for nine months?"

Nat paused. She didn't want to answer that yet. She didn't want him to think she had sat passively by. She didn't want him to know she'd been searching—obsessing—either. She didn't know what she wanted him to believe yet. Or what she believed herself.

He scoffed. Of course she would stay silent. So typical.

"How do you think you got the sores?" she eventually asked.

Bruce looked at his arms, his stomach, his bandaged feet. The shirt hurt too much on his skin, sticking to the open sores, so he was without it. He didn't answer.

"I saw you—or him, I guess—go in the water. When he came out he scratched at his skin where sand stuck. It seemed painful—he was kind of howling while he did it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Do you think that could be it?"

"Makes sense," Bruce forgot his anger, caught up in the curiosity of it. Figuring out the Hulk had been his full-time job for years—old habits die hard. "Only thing strong enough to really hurt him is himself. Sand and saltwater would help that process along."

"Why though? Why wouldn't he stop? Those sores are so deep—it couldn't have just been the one time that he scratched like that."

"I don't think executive function is very high on his list of priorities," Bruce remarked dryly.

"Right."

He ate a few more spoonfuls before shoving the bowl away.

"Let me just re-apply the antibiotic cream once more on your back before you sleep again. Maybe there's enough clean skin now to get some gauze on there."

Bruce leaned away from the wall while Natasha applied the cream. There wasn't enough skin, not yet, but the sores were calming down, the redness already starting to fade. As she got around to his side, Bruce leaned away from her.

"I can get that spot," he held his hand out for the tube.

"You can do your chest, but if you reach that far around you'll split the skin on your back." She held the tube just out of reach, allowing him to stretch for it if he so desired. If he did, however, he'd prove her right, and they both knew it. He righted himself and held his arm up grudgingly, allowing her to continue. He flinched when she touched his ribs.

"Ticklish, are we?" She jibed. He didn't reply. She bit her lip, continuing in silence. She deserved this.

When she finished, he turned away from her to lie down facing the wall. She sat and watched him breathe. He was pretending to be asleep, but she could see the irregular rise and fall of his ribcage. He wasn't sleeping. He just didn't want to talk to her. Eventually his breathing did level out. He needed rest.

For the first time since arriving, Nat rose and went out to the jet with the intent of cleaning herself up. She had changed out of her suit after tending to him that first time, but she hadn't wanted to risk bathing or losing sight of the cabana for longer than a few minutes at a time. She didn't know if he'd need her. Or if he'd run.

The tears hit her in the tiny onboard shower.

He hated her. Truly loathed her. He had not and would not forgive her for pushing him over the edge in Sokovia.

_"You're not gonna go green on me, are you?"_

_"I have a compelling reason to not lose my cool."_

_"I adore you. . . but I need the other guy."_

She laughed in the stream of hot water. How cruel of a shift—from being his reason to stay calm to being his reason for rage. Fitting. A lifetime of training to destroy things, and she thought the first time she actually wanted to hold something together it would work? The hubris.

She assessed the supplies on the jet while she dried her hair. They easily had enough for a month or two, should that be needed. Would it be? She hadn't thought that far ahead when she left. Her only goal had been to find him. What now?

Her chin wobbled as she pictured him—his knobby spine, his hairy chest interrupted by the awful sores. Those horrible, gruesome looking feet. She felt responsible for all the pain he was in. It was her fault, after all. She had pushed him.

In the med kit was a pair of scissors—she wondered if he'd like a haircut. She hadn't seen his curls this long before. Since he couldn't wash them yet, he might prefer to have them out of the way. Though, the messy ringlets hanging over his face were very attractive. Natasha dropped her towel as the thought crossed her mind. _What the fuck?_ If his cold shoulder had made anything apparent in that cabana, it was that _that_ ship had sailed. And sunk.

Natasha grabbed her suit from the planning table in the jet where she had tossed it the night before in her haste to get changed and get back up to him. She tossed it into a small hole in the wall—the ship would clean it. Instead she pulled on a V-neck and some pants. If he was going to go green at this point, she deserved whatever was coming. She chuckled to herself self-deprecatingly. What a thought. She slipped on one of her bracelets. Just in case.

She grabbed the medkit to take back to the cabana when he woke up. She'd change the bandages on his feet. And maybe he'd want a haircut.

* * *

He grimaced as she fished in the bottom of his foot with the tweezers. He had felt something in there—an itching sensation that wouldn't go away. It had been the first thing he grudgingly said to her upon waking, right after sunset.

"Ah! There we go!" Nat pulled out the tweezers—they pinched an inch-long splinter of wood. Bruce eyed the shard with indifference.

"Wow. I can't believe that was in your foot."

"Not mine."

Natasha bit her lip and started spreading the medicated ointment into his sole. She deserved this. This and more. As she worked, she dared to look up at his face.

"Why do you think so many injuries came back with you? He normally heals so fast."

"Dunno."

The answer was like a slap in the face. Maybe earlier he had forgotten his anger at her, but now it was front and center.

Outside of his fear of the Hulk, one of Bruce's favorite conversation topics was understanding him—his physiology, biomechanics, bodily processes, everything that made his seemingly impossible existence possible. This was a huge milestone in discovering more of the connection between them, and she knew Bruce had to be dying to find out why such a toll was taken on his human body. But he wasn't curious enough to break his silence towards her. She finished wrapping his foot and stood up.

"There are some scissors in the medkit—I was wondering if you would like a haircut. You probably won't be able to shower for a while and I don't know if it's bothering you now, but it might in a week or so."

She watched him process. He looked away, rubbing at his stubble before nodding tersely. She grabbed the scissors from the kit before kneeling behind him and setting about cutting in silence.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he asked after a few snips.

"Curls are easier than straight—you're shaping rather than cutting. You just take it curl by curl."

"How do you know that?"

Nat smiled. He was speaking to her willingly. "I used to cut hair in the—back in training. For the other girls."

"Of course. Another one of the many hats of Natasha Romanoff."

"Not hat, scissors," Nat joked. He didn't laugh.

She continued snipping. Curl by curl, she'd pinch, pull taut, cut, re-twirl, lay down. It was rhythmic, almost soothing.

"You lost weight," she commented.

"Is that a question?"

"I just—I didn't know that you'd lose weight while he was in control. That you could."

"Me neither."

"Could it be that the other guy wasn't eating stuff that gave you what you needed nutritionally?"

He didn't respond.

"Are you hungry?"

"I feel like my insides have been put through a blender."

"So no?"

"Not really."

"If I make something, will you try and eat it?" She kept cutting, snipping the sides shorter. She gently rolled his head over to expose the side she was working on to the moonlight.

"Nothing sweet. Something basic."

"I'll go on a hunt when we're done here."

She kept cutting in silence. She could feel the tension in his shoulders, his resentment at having her so close. Still, she didn't rush. His hair was gorgeous—thick and soft. It was also greasy and full of sand, but Nat could see through that. She gave his shoulder a gentle pat when she finished and stood up. He flinched.

"I'll go make you some food." She gathered the discarded hair and tossed it out the window into the surf.

She dug through the jet until she found a pre-prepped ration of rice and some basic protein. By the time she made it back to the cabana with the food however, he was fast asleep. She set it down next to him and retreated to the front stoop. Giving him the privacy of the cabana seemed like the least she could do after everything she'd put him through. He could eat when he woke.


	7. Action Figures

"I can do this by now." Bruce commented as Natasha bandaged his feet.

"Ok. Yeah. Sure," she wiped her hands on her pants and sat back on her heels, looking at Bruce. He was looking back at her now—she didn't know if it was better or worse than when he refused to look at all. His expression was so cold. In three days it hadn't softened a bit. The silence had though. He was never the silent type. Nat should have remembered that.

"So," he faltered. "How is everybody?"

It was the first time he had tried to make conversation with her. She tried not to smile before replying.

"Clint and Laura had their third. Nathaniel Pietro Barton."

"Pietro as in the fast one?"

"Yeah."

"I thought Clint hated that guy."

"He did. Right up until he ran in front of some machine gun fire for him."

"So he. . .?"

"Yeah. Wanda was a mess for a while."

"I can imagine. Going through all that to avenge the death of their parents and then she loses her brother too." Of course he'd be able to empathize with Wanda, even after Johannesburg. He could forgive almost anything. Almost.

"Avenging has a funny way of doing that to people," Natasha half-smiled.

"What about Cap? Tony?"

"Tony's mostly in Malibu. Him and Pepper are getting serious—he listens to her a solid fifty percent of the time now."

Bruce whistled through his teeth. Was that a half smile she saw?

"Steve is at HQ. SHIELD sends over their recruits for training on fighting the enhanced, and he works with Wanda and Rhodes and Sam. Vision too."

"So, more fighting." Bruce stood up and grimaced. He hobbled to the balcony and leaned on the railing to admire the view. Natasha came up from behind and he slid over slightly, giving her room to look out as well. The view was gorgeous: crystal-clear blue water, islands off in the distance with big, fluffy white clouds in the sky. The breeze blowing through cooled the air just enough to be comfortable, and it smelled of something sweet and floral.

"Always more fighting," Bruce muttered.

"It's what we're trained to do," Natasha replied.

"And if we weren't? If we weren't there, would half of this, this… this _shit_ even happen?"

"What if it did? And we weren't there?"

"It wouldn't be our problem I suppose."

"Exactly. And _that's_ the problem. Whose would it be? Who on Earth could hope to protect us? Our planet?" Natasha caught herself—she was getting too frantic, too emphatic. This was what she told herself to convince herself it was good, it was ok what she was doing. Bruce didn't need that, not right now. "I'm sorry," she faltered.

"Don't apologize."

"No, I didn't mean to go all hero complex on you."

"It's fine. Wouldn't be an Avenger without one."

"Ouch."

He just shrugged. It was true, wasn't it? Natasha took a second to collect herself. Hero complex was harsh. That was so Cap, so Stark, so Thor-like. She never pictured herself as a hero. She knew Bruce didn't either.

"You didn't ask about Thor," she finally spoke.

"Huh?"

"He's off looking into these stones. The tesseract was one. The crystal in Vision's head is another. Apparently they're part of a set and there's been too many on earth recently. Probably why we've had so many alien suitors coming and knocking on our door," she smiled wryly. "He's trying to figure it out and cut it off at the source. So maybe we don't have to be heroes anymore. Or pretend to be." She tried not to sound too wistful as she said it. She knew she could never really stop.

Bruce stayed silent for a while, chewing on that.

"And you?" he finally asked.

"I've been at HQ with Steve. Working with the newbies."

"Always ready for a fight." Bruce joked bitterly.

"Don't have much choice."

"You always have a choice." The intensity in Bruce's voice shook her.

"Not quite. I don't do fieldwork anymore."

"Finally threw in the towel?"

"Hard to be a spy when there are action figures of you in every Toys R' Us."

"Action figures?"

"Yeah. Controversial, but good sellers. Hulk is a favorite."

Bruce grimaced. "Controversial?" he asked.

"Not everybody approves of the Avengers."

"Ah yes. The famous conundrum of 'they kill aliens, but they also level cities'. My heart goes out to them," Bruce remarked.

"Not everybody can see the big picture."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We save people."

"We kill people too."

"Never on purpose."

"Here, let us come save you, but we're going to bring this giant green monster along that might turn on you guys when the fight's done and he doesn't feel like stopping yet."

"Bruce—"

"Save it Natasha. I remember Johannesburg. Or rather, the aftermath."

"Wanda did that, not you."

"I was a very effective tool for Wanda that day, wasn't I?"

"We couldn't have known. You stayed back when we all went in the tanker, you were doing everything right."

"And look at how many lives that saved."

" _We couldn't have known."_ Natasha turned and looked at his grim expression. "And you know that. Why are you bringing this up?"

"Why are you here, Natasha?" He finally turned and looked at her. "To take me back, right? Fury sent you on one final trip? You say no fieldwork yet here you are. I'm sure nine months was enough time for them to whip up some sort of lab-prison I can work in; all the top-notch equipment that drops out through the floor the second I go green. Veronica marks two, three, and four waiting in the wings, right? Retrieve the brains, they deal with the brawn. I get it. Sending you was smart."

Natasha forced her face back to impassivity and looked back out at the water. That would have made sense, actually. It was the kind of thing Fury would do—or Tony. They would say it was for the best. Before Ultron, they would have informed her ahead of time too. She must have made her allegiance clear. Would they have told her if they were working on something like that? Did they know she was looking for him? Were they keeping tabs right now? She shook her head to clear the thought. She couldn't think like that—not anymore.

"Is that what you want?" she finally asked.

"What?"

"To be locked up?"

"I mean. . ." Bruce's brow crinkled as he thought. "I wanted to get off Earth. I just—there's nowhere. Nowhere I can go that I'm not a threat. You know this, I, I've told you this before."

"You've been here for nine months without a single casualty. That seems pretty safe to me."

Bruce ruminated for a moment before speaking.

"The jet's not here," he said.

"Huh?" Natasha furrowed her brow, the change of topic too sudden for her to follow.

"The jet that he—I—took. Have you seen it? I haven't."

Natasha thought back to when she was cruising over the island, approaching to land. She hadn't seen anything—her instruments hadn't picked up anything either. There hadn't been a crash-site in the jungle.

"You think he can swim." As she spoke, she was taken back to her bare-bones office at HQ, zooming in on a monstrous green shape breaking the surface of the water near a boat full of tourists, just days ago. Fury would have a hissy if he knew.

"Not swim, no. Walk. Underwater. I don't think he floats. Or needs air. Or at least, not as often as we do. I remember. . ." he faded out, looking back to the water. Natasha waited, but he didn't finish the thought. She didn't pry.

"So you walked here," she said. "Big deal. You didn't leave."

"But I could have."

"But you didn't." The fib rolled off her tongue with too much ease. He hadn't gone to land, hadn't sought out any humans. That was the same thing, right?

"But I _could_. That's the point Natasha. There's nowhere I'm safe."

"So you do want to be locked up?"

"No!" he threw up his hands and hobbled backwards, back into the cabana. He did his best to storm out, down the ramp to the beach. Nat paced behind him, giving him his space.

"Obviously I don't want to be locked up! You all seem to think the Hulk is some sort of tool, some sort of useful, semi-unpredictable weapon to be pulled out when you need a boost. Well he's not!" Bruce was getting more animated now. Natasha eyed the jet nearby warily. If he went green right now it wouldn't be good.

"You see what he does, when he gets into the bloodbath and something makes him mad. You've seen—you've seen the aftermath. You guys just yank me around and make it seem like it's life or death every single time, like the Hulk is the _only_ one who can come in and save the day. Like every mission is a code green as soon as you start sweating. You have what, ten enhanceds now? Tony's whipping out more contraptions every day? You can do without a Hulk."

Bruce flopped down on the sand, staring out at the ocean. He hugged his knees to his chest. Natasha approached slowly and sat next to him.

"Bruce," she began.

"Give me a minute," he replied. His tone was suddenly controlled, a tense calm rather than his fury from before. He took a deep breath in and Nat watched him silently count as he released it. 4-7-8 breathing. She had taught him that.

She stood up and retreated to the jet, retrieving the Walkman she had bought at the market in Papua.

"Got you something. A gift." Nat sat down next to him again and held it out. He looked up from his breathing—was that the hint of a smile? He didn't take it, so she set it down on her lap—she didn't want to get it all sandy.

He kept breathing. Nat watched the waves. Fish jumped out occasionally. Birds would dive too. Mostly the waves just rolled into the shore, bubbling up towards their feet before sliding back away.

"You shouldn't have come." Bruce finally said. "You shouldn't have come at all. It was—Jesus Christ, it was like Schrodinger's cat before. Will he destroy everything or will he keep his cool? Let's leave him on a deserted island and then we'll never have to know."

"The plan was never to leave you. We just didn't know where you were."

"Well congratulations. You found me. Now what?"

Natasha looked down at the sand in front of her. A tiny crab zipped in front of her into a pin sized hole.

"You're right. About the Avengers. They don't always make the best choices with their assets." She covered the hole with sand.

" _They?"_

"We." Natasha corrected herself. "People are noticing that now. More and more. It's why I'm not in the field, actually."

"Huh?"

"People didn't like seeing an Avenger out doing dirty work like that. Where I went, there were comments. Conversations—how the Avengers need to be regulated. Controlled."

"And you decided that _I_ was the best choice to go retrieve? Me, who clearly is the exemplar of perfect self-control," Bruce's disbelieving voice belied his sarcasm.

"It's just that things aren't all rosy for the Avengers right now, that's all."

"A Hulk won't help that."

"Maybe not Hulk, but Dr. Banner could."

"No. Nuh-uh. No way. You're kidding, right?"

"Only mostly," Nat had to smile. It was worth a shot. "We're all laying low. Taking some time to let the world cool down. The plan is to be equipped when we come back."

"For what?"

"I don't know. I hope I never have to." Nat replied, digging her toes into the sand. She didn't like where this line of questioning was going. Sooner or later he'd notice that she hadn't really answered his question. She lifted her toes, bringing piles of the moist sand up on top of them, then shook it off, jumping to her feet. "Want some starfruit? I have to eat it within the next day or two or it's going to go bad. And—oh, have you tried Guava? Like the real stuff? Not the bullshit you get back in Queens at those fruit stands—hold on, let me grab some."

She dropped the Walkman in his lap and flitted off to the jet, leaving Bruce sitting there on the beach, just breathing, over and over again. He picked up the Walkman and held it for a moment, looking between it and the jet. Then he stood and followed Nat.


	8. Please [don't] forgive me

Natasha pulled the dish out of the heating unit. She had ridiculed Stark for how domestic the new Quinjet was, but she had to give it to him now; she had lived in relative comfort on a deserted island for nearly a week because of it. Its water purification system, onboard shower, even the heating unit had adapted well from just heating MRE's to functioning as a basic microwave. Back at HQ she had wondered as each change came in why he was modifying it in such a way. His interests had always laid more in weapons and cutting-edge tech. At the time she had figured it was because of Pepper's influence on him. Now she thought that maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of a guilty conscience on his part for what had happened to Bruce. Better late than never.

"What is this made of?" Bruce asked as Natasha arrived on the cabana's balcony carrying the hot dish.

"Taro, cassava, and coconut crème. We should figure out a way to get some fish soon—that would help you get weight back on quicker." Nat scooped some of the potatoes into a wooden bowl and handed it to Bruce. "I wonder if we could dig a pit oven," she wondered absentmindedly.

It had been six days since Bruce had come back. His appetite had thankfully grown, and he had been devouring everything Natasha made. Her supplies from the market were good, and they still had MREs in the jet that he was eating every day as well, but those were finite. He needed protein.

Bruce took a bite and chewed. He didn't mind eating tropical now that his stomach problems had passed. Even his feet were feeling better. But something was off—he didn't like Natasha's train of thought.

"Dig a pit oven? Go fishing? How long were you planning on staying?" He finally asked.

Natasha shrugged. "As long as needed."

"As long as needed for what?"

"I don't know."

"So you're not here for Fury? Or Stark?"

"Nope."

"Then why are you here, Natasha?" His tone was growing cold. Natasha bit her lip, trying to find the words to say. She had been digging for them in the back of her mind ever since arriving on the island, but they were elusive.

"Bruce. . ."

"Tell me that you have some scheme to undermine some mission or government or something and you were planning on using me—him—for it. Tell me it's strategy, team-building, _something_. Please tell me it's some manipulative Avengers-style plot." He was looking at her, pleading with his words. He wanted so badly for it to be simplified after she had mucked it all up, their delicate balance, veering to one side and then so sharply to the other.

"It was my fault," Nat murmured.

Bruce leaned back and looked out at the water, collecting himself. The silence hung over Natasha like a dark cloud.

"Yeah, kinda," he finally replied.

"And this is my fault too."

"Yeah."

"And I need to make it right."

"You would have made it right by leaving me alone."

"Probably," she whispered. This was not going how she had hoped. She had so much to say and she knew she had no right to say it. Bruce crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," she began.

"Natasha—" he interrupted, not letting her finish.

"Can I just speak?" she retorted.

He sat there. She watched him begin counting under his breath. She silently cursed herself for raising her voice.

"I shouldn't have pushed you. I shouldn't have. I should have kept my promise, I should have run with you. But I can't, Bruce. I can't. I've got red in my ledger. I've got dues to pay. And I know, that day, in Sokovia. I know I fucked up. Making a promise I couldn't keep. It made. . ." she trailed off, searching for what she needed to say. "One of those debts I have? Now, one is to you. So here I am. Whatever's coming my way, I deserve it."

"No." he said quietly. He started wringing his hands. His tell. "You don't. You just don't, Natasha. That's what I'm saying! That's what I've _been_ saying! You don't deserve this, any part of this. Nobody does. I'm sick of having this same conversation over and over and over again! I was stupid to even think—to even assume that we could just, I don't know, run off, escape it all. It was stupid, it would have never worked."

"Don't say that."

"It's what I always said! Until whatever all that was, back at Barton's. . ." he looked out at the water, breathing. "I shouldn't have changed my answer. I'm sick of having this conversation." he finally said, his tone measured.

"So don't."

"I think we've both seen by now that it's not that simple, Natasha."

"I messed up. I messed up bad, Bruce. I wanted to run, I did. But then we were in Sokovia and all I could see were the looks on Tony's and Steve's and Clint's faces when they saw we were gone. That I was gone. That I had done exactly what they always thought I would. Spy first, hero second. And that's not fair. Because running. . . that was supposed to be mine. My thing. _Our_ thing." She looked at him wistfully, a moment of vulnerability. He couldn't look at her, couldn't meet her eyes. She powered on.

"I've never really had a thing before. And I wanted it, I wanted _that_ so badly. But I didn't realize—earning forgiveness, making amends, doing good, that had become my thing too. I chose to do that, for myself. I always thought it was the Avengers and I was just some imposter, tagging along, but it's not. It's a choice I made. And it hurts sometimes. Like now. But I'm going to keep it because, well, I haven't been very good at keeping promises in the past. And suddenly, keeping one promise meant breaking another. I didn't realize that til Sokovia. And so I gave up . . . another promise. Prematurely made, maybe, but a promise nonetheless. And I hurt you. Selfish. I know. But the things I've done, I just, I have to make amends. I have to. "

She paused, looking at the ground, taking a moment to collect herself. Finally she looked up at him, smiling. "And funnily enough, here I am, almost a year later, and this feels like the biggest wrong I've ever done."

"So you're here for forgiveness." He looked at her. She couldn't meet his eyes.

"I wish I could say no," her chin wobbled and she bit her lip, trying to bite back the tears. She could hear now how selfish it sounded. How selfish it was.

Bruce shook his head slowly.

"Nat. . ."

And there it was. The exact same anguish she had seen in his eyes when he was fighting the Hulk.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, watching her hands clasped in her lap, unable to look up. She heard his breath get deeper, then he let out a low growl.

"You should leave," he muttered. She finally glanced at him and saw the tense expression on his face, his shoulders rising and falling too fast. Was that green expanding from the vein in his neck? She didn't know what to say—normally she'd try to coach him, calm him, remind him of his human side. She had a feeling she had overdone that this time, however.

"Get out of here," he stood abruptly. "GO!" he yelled, staggering back into the cabana.

He lurched through the room and out, jumping off the ramp rather than walking the full way. He landed on his hands and knees in the sand and stayed down. Natasha raced down to the beach, then watched his back expand, stretch the white shirt he had managed to put on for the first time that day, stretching it until it was straining at the seams. She stood behind him, paralyzed. He turned and looked at her. His face was green, but still his, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Leave! Please!" he begged.

"I'm staying. You got this." Natasha took a breath and collected herself. "Breathe. In and out."

"Natasha," he strangled her name, trying to stand up and run before tripping and falling back to the sand. "Go!"

"No," she declared, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Her bracelets and suit were in the jet. If he went green it would be a question of how fast she could run. But she wouldn't.

"Please," he choked, crawling away from her. He hadn't ripped his shirt yet though. His coloring had come in and out, but he was still human, still Bruce.

"You're gonna be ok. Look, you're not going. Breathe. Just breathe." Natasha knelt next to him and put a hand on his back. He flinched again, shuddered. He pounded the sand once with his fist before rolling over onto his back and lying there, panting. Nat knelt in the sand next to him and watched him breathe, four counts in, holding for seven, out for eight. It was his favorite pattern.

After a minute he sat up and put his head in his hands, rocking slightly.

"Bruce, you're ok. You won." Natasha tried not to let on how thrilled she was. After nine months of staying green, he had managed to keep the training they had worked on together. Hell, he had _improved_. She couldn't remember the last time he had stopped a transformation that far along.

He didn't say anything. Natasha heard his breathing get deeper, she heard the whoosh each time as he breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. She was surprised when he let out a gasp—was he crying?

"I could have killed you," he rasped. He didn't look up.

"I would have deserved it."

His shoulders kept heaving, but he didn't make another sound. The seconds stretched into minutes. Natasha didn't move, didn't leave. Eventually he looked up at her, his face raw. She looked back.

"Why would you do that to me?" his voice was small. "You would let me kill you."

"I deserve it."

"And what about me? Do I—do I deserve that? Having to live with that? Coming out of it and seeing. . . seeing. . . oh Jesus" he hunched back down again. Nat looked away, out to the water. Of course, he was right.

"I really fucked this up," she whispered. "Wow." She laughed quietly.

"I do not see the humor here," he whispered. That just made her smile more.

"I disobeyed orders, ya know. Maybe one of the first times in my life. I stole this jet, I stole my suit, I didn't register a flight plan, and I came halfway around the world to see you. To see what I've done to you." She laughed again, hollow. She took a minute. Was there any good way to explain this? She watched his back rise and fall, slowing.

"I was so scared of you in India. So scared. My heart was jumping out of my chest."

"I could tell from the armada you had outside."

"On the helicarrier too."

"Rightfully so."

" _No._ " She turned and looked at him, her gaze intense. "You wouldn't have even been there if it weren't for me. If I hadn't brought you in." He finally looked at her, not following her logic.

"You were following orders."

"Exactly. Like I have my entire life." She picked up a stone and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. It was polished from years of waves beating against it, sand grating it down, shining it.

"I fail to see where this is going."

"I don't want forgiveness, Bruce. For Sokovia. I'm not sorry at all. If I hadn't pushed you that day, thousands would have died. I say that with confidence—I know we'll never know, but I believe."

"So then, why did you say. . . up there?"

"I sat in my office at HQ for nine months and hunted through the internet, through the universe as it exists online, to find you. Everybody knew, but nobody except Steve was willing to take one for the team and confront me about it, tell me to get my head out of my ass and stop dreaming. I had hoped—I don't know. In Sokovia. You'd land. We'd go. . . like we said. I don't know. It sounds stupid now." She threw the stone into the ocean.

"You thought we'd still do it? Still go? Just take off? After that?"

"A girl can dream, right?" She smiled and bit her lip again, then found another stone in the sand and began rubbing it. Bruce took a moment, trying to process.

"I thought that Ultron might be enough. I knew I couldn't abandon the team, not there. But after. . . I wanted to do better—do more. I don't know. I wanted to draw a clearer line. Between what I was and what I could maybe be, with time."

"With me."

"Yeah." She turned and smiled at him. She was choking up, embarrassed. Had he ever seen Natasha Romanoff embarrassed before?

"I thought you'd agree," she murmured. "About Sokovia being necessary."

"Well," Bruce scratched the back of his neck, his reluctance obvious. "I mean, maybe it was. Evil robot AI slamming a city into the planet to cause global extinction seems fair cause for a code green, I guess."

"And I know that doesn't excuse my actions, or—the trust. I know that. I know. And I know—for the other guy—I know what I am to him. I'm the one that comes and shoves him away. Brings you back. I know he must hate me. All he sees is rage and destruction—this is the first peace he's probably ever known." She chuckled and took a moment, quelling the tears that seemed to be fighting for a chance to reappear.

"But I'm still here. After everything I did, all of this," she gestured vaguely around them. "I know. And that's why I'd deserve it. If you went green. If you went green and I was gone and you came back and didn't mourn. I'd get it. I'd be proud. Bruce Banner finally getting retribution for the shit he's been put through. I did this to you—to him—and I deserve whatever happens next because of it."

"And what about me? What do I deserve?"


	9. Nature's Principles

“You deserve peace. Quiet. Whatever in the world you want.”

She leaned in closer to him, sitting up on her knees, closing the distance between them slowly, tentatively, giving him every opportunity to turn away, to lean back, to say no. “I just thought, maybe, you wouldn’t mind sharing it with me,” she whispered, her mouth inches from his. He didn’t move, rooted to the spot.

She leaned in and kissed him. Just like that, on the beach, next to the cabana and Quinjet, salt breeze blowing through her hair. She pulled away and lingered there for a moment. He kissed her again. The kiss was hungry, overdue. His hand found her waist and she wrapped her arm around his neck.

He pulled her in and she lost her balance, teetering before his other arm came behind her knees, pulled her over and onto his lap, pressing their bodies together, clinging to the moment. The way he held her was desperate, needy, tight. She was a lifeline—but to what? To the life he’d rarely allow himself to even imagine? To even dream was possible?

He pushed her off suddenly, his instinct overcoming him. She caught herself easily, lowering herself to sit down beside him. She hugged her knees to her chest and looked down, embarrassed. Of course, she’d jumped the gun. Jesus Christ, asking for forgiveness for the horrible way she’d treated him and then expecting that? She shuddered with humiliation. Where was her self-control?

“Nat,” he whispered breathlessly. She tried to warp her face to be impassive.

“You would have let me kill you. Self-sabotage? That’s. . . that’s. . . that’s just such a cop-out.” He turned away from her. “What am I even talking about,” he mumbled to himself.

“I’m sorry—”

“No! Don’t apologize!” He sprang to his feet and walked a few feet away from her towards the water before stopping and turning to face her. “I’m not mad, it’s just, you’re ready to die as an apology, and your dream is to save the world, on your own terms, but you also said you’d run away with me, you’d go wherever I led, and here we are, and forgive me if I’m a bit confused on what you want, on why you’re here, I don’t think you’ve made it very clear, so I’m just, I’m struggling here, Nat, I’m really struggling.”

“I understand.”

“No. I don’t think you do,” he paced as he spoke, wringing his hands, looking everywhere, his feet, the water, Nat, the jet.

“I have to go, Nat. It’s not an option for me, it’s my duty, as much as saving people, making amends, paying off debts is yours. I’m a liability every second I’m around you guys, whether I fly off the handle or not, whatever the Hulk does the Avengers will have to answer for. You say governments already are starting to question—imagine how much worse that would be with even one more rampage under my belt. Just one! The PR, the pundits, the lives lost—I just, I can’t describe that to you, that grief. You’ve never killed, you’ll never kill, never, not on that scale, that many, that many innocents, you just won’t, so don’t try and say you relate or something.”

He didn’t see Natasha exhale slowly, stopping herself from interrupting. It wasn’t the moment.

“I know you try,” Bruce continued. “I know you mean well, but you can’t understand, and that’s ok, you don’t have to, but then you show up here to what, to tempt me? To lure me in? To run with me? To try and change my mind? I just. . . I don’t get it, it seems like you want something I just can’t give you, not if you’re so committed to that, that. . .that lifestyle!” he shook his hands trying to find the right words, and a splash of green appeared on his neck. It spread quickly up into his hairline.

Natasha stood up, ten feet up the beach from him. Bruce looked at her and she watched the Hulk’s face emerge for a second. He roared and took one faltering step towards her, swatting at her with an arm that was still Bruce’s. Then Bruce was back, just for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. He looked like he might have tried to say something else, but instead he shook his head before turning and sprinting up the beach, into the trees. She heard the crash seconds later as he finished becoming the Hulk, thrashing into the jungle away from her.

Nat sat back down in the sand, dumbfounded. She felt a visceral level of guilt for having pushed him over the edge like that, but she was also shocked at how quickly the transformation had happened.

She realized that she had always relied on him to stop himself when he felt his heart-rate rise, to always have such tight control that even in anger or rage he could tamp it down enough to stop a transition. She also realized that maybe the kiss had meant his heart rate was already slightly elevated. She knew hers was.

As the shock faded, a child-like frustration set in. She wanted to fix the world. She wanted him to want to fix the world. And he did, he just thought that the only way he could was by removing himself from the equation. Natasha felt a tightness in her throat at that.

He was one of the warmest, most intelligent humans she had ever met. A total pacifist, dedicated to helping others, and all he could see was the monster inside. She wanted to sit him down and scream in his face how good he was. Her thoughts started racing in Russian as she thought of the things she would say, desperately trying to convince him to see himself in the same way she did.

It had always been a touchy subject between them, even before Ultron, when they had worked together every day. Anytime Nat tried to remind him that he was good, that he was helping, Bruce would shut down. He’d remind her he was only helping until Hydra was gone and the scepter retrieved, that his focus was on the science and diagnostics Tony and him were doing, that their training together was ‘just in case’, that at any moment he could snap and hurt her or destroy their cushy quarters in the tower. She had given up on it. Trying to get through to him just put up a barrier between them that couldn’t exist if she was going to be the one to calm the Hulk down.

She had bit her tongue and let him believe he was the monster. She had done it again today. He had no idea, absolutely no clue about her life before SHIELD. He thought he knew. He probably envisioned assassinations of heads of state, thugs in dark clothing, mob bosses and drug lords. He would never guess the truth. The wives, the children, the soft spots of the people in power. She was perfectly suited for it; feminine, beautiful. It was easy for her to enter those sacred spaces, the ones where a powerful man’s weaknesses lived.

She had needed Bruce to trust her. And for that to happen, she held her tongue, didn’t push his soft spots, kept her comparisons to herself.

But now? Things had changed. They were on his turf now; an anonymous spot far away from danger. A place he could try and disappear to. She wondered if he had planned on killing himself, secretly, when he got to wherever he was going. _Nowhere on Earth,_ he had said. Here they were on Earth though, and she knew he meant it. Maybe a gun in the mouth didn’t work, maybe the Hulk could walk underwater, but there were numerous other ways to die in the jungle. Poisonous plants or animals, heights, fire, the opportunities abounded. She pictured how he had looked the day after coming down, still sickly and cut up and raw. He had been harmed—so the Hulk could do worse. The thought turned Natasha’s stomach.

Now things were different. The time where she was his safe space had clearly passed. Now she had to convince him. Convince him he could be safe, convince him he could trust her, convince him that the greatest good he could do to the world would be to come back, to give not only Bruce Banner’s intelligence, but the Hulk’s strength and ferocity. She had to convince him that he and the Hulk could work together, that he could trust her and together they could work with the Hulk, practice with him, get to know him. She had to.

She wanted to believe it was the best thing for him. She grazed her finger over her lips, remembering the kiss. Maybe he wanted her too, and just saw the insurmountable odds between them. Maybe she could break those odds down. She felt ashamed at the thought of it. She could say it was for him all day long, but in the end, she knew why she was doing it. She craved that feeling again, held by him, wrapped in his arms. He thought he was so intensely dangerous, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so safe.

She had to go get him. Funny how pursuing that feeling of safety meant following in the path of danger.

Natasha stood up and walked back into the jet. She pressed a button on the wall and a compartment opened, revealing her folded suit, cleaned and ready to go. She snapped her bracelets on and reloaded the taser cartridges she had fired on her first day there. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use them, but she was uncertain where she stood with the Hulk. She could posture to Bruce all day long about the other guy, but she’d be lying if she said she trusted him or knew his triggers.

She hadn’t heard him in the ten minutes or so since he disappeared, which meant he could be anywhere on the island. Nat pulled a pack together quickly with enough food for a few days, plus water purification for whatever she found. Finding water itself in a jungle was never an issue. She stepped out of the Quinjet and checked her surroundings before leaving its belly open and setting off. The island truly was deserted other than them, she didn’t believe anybody would come and make off with the jet in her absence.

As she followed his trail, Natasha wracked her mind for what she could say to begin convincing him to rejoin the world. He was a smart guy; he had already thought of so many scenarios. What could she offer that was new, that would ease his mind and put his doubts to rest?


	10. Who's the Beast now?!?

The jungle was muggy and bug-filled and miserable. Even following the path cleared for her by the Hulk, Nat kept getting snagged on branches, tripped by roots, bitten by insects who whined in her ears and caught in her hair. As she went deeper and deeper it got darker and darker and the smell of rotting vegetation grew.

When she stopped for water it tasted brackish, even after purifying. She found another tree like the one she slept in her first night on the island and decided to spend the night there again. She couldn't hear the Hulk anywhere nearby, and as soon as the sun set, the jungle was in near-total darkness.

She wondered how he slept, the Hulk. Did he need to as often as humans did? Did he dream?

She wondered where Bruce was, inside him. If he could see the world at all, or if it was just darkness. She wondered if his body subconsciously remembered the things it did when it was huge and green and unrestricted. She wondered if it was the other way around.

In the morning she set-off again, determined to find him before the mosquitos fully drained her body of blood. Navigating was hard in the jungle, but from what she could tell he had cut inwards and then taken a meandering path south. The island truly wasn't that big—a few kilometers diameter at most. The going was just wretchedly slow because of the density. Even the Hulk, she could see, had struggled. There were points where large fallen trees crossed the path he had taken—some of them were smashed and collapsed, but one of harder wood was just bent, splintered in a few places but still whole. A copse of smaller trees off to the left had been completely uprooted, thrown around and smashed into pulp. He must have been pretty pissed at the impassable obstacle.

A full day of walking had Nat discouraged. The island seemed so small from above, but the jungle was vast and thick around her. She wasn't sure, but she felt like she had slowly cut closer and closer to the edge of the jungle. It had likely been a very roundabout way of getting there, but the foliage was thinning and she was no longer walking in ankle-deep water most of the time.

She found him just as she was starting to worry about having to spend a second night in a tree.

The sun was slanting in the sky, not setting yet, but shining in her eyes as she trudged through the bushes. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him—he wasn't more than fifteen feet away, reclining against a tree, peeling bark off a huge branch.

He looked up and saw her a moment after she first saw him. He stopped peeling the branch, but didn't get up. She took that as a good sign, even as her heart thumped in her chest.

"Hey big guy," she began.

He resumed peeling, looking apprehensively between her and the branch.

"That's a nice branch ya got there," she said.

"Hmph," he grunted.

"Do the bugs bother you too? Or is your skin too thick for them?"

He ignored her. So, he wasn't mad, but he wasn't exactly thrilled to see her either. Even though her legs felt like they were made of concrete, Nat took a step closer. He eyed her warily but didn't move. She took that as a sign to approach, sitting on a massive exposed root about ten feet away from him. She tried to make herself seem comfortable, even though she was ready to flee at the slightest movement from him.

"Would you mind if I asked you a question?" Nat asked.

"Hmph," he replied.

"Do you like it here?"

He paused his peeling of the branch and looked at her, serious.

"Mmm," he finally grunted.

"It was probably really nice getting some time to just be at peace, right?"

He resumed his peeling.

"I'm sorry that I came and ended that."

He kept working at the branch.

"Do you see what happens when he's out instead?"

He froze. Nat wondered if mentioning Bruce had been a mistake.

"Mmm," he finally grunted. "Some."

She masked her surprise. She had heard him speak before, of course. After taking Loki down in New York he was surprisingly coherent and in control. She didn't know why it was surprising now.

"Does it make you mad when we want Banner to come back?"

He froze again, his nostrils flaring.

"Puny. Hurt." He grumbled.

"He hurts you or you hurt him?"

"Weak."

"Compared to you, yeah."

He sneered at her, then pointed at his chest. " _Weak._ "

"Oh. You mean feelings."

"Mmph."

"Don't you have any feelings?"

"Mad."

"Other than mad. You're not mad right now, are you?"

He looked at her then. It was interesting, watching him evaluate her. Without the rage in his features, just mild contempt, it was easy to see his similarities to Bruce—the same jawline, the same deep-set eyes, high cheekbones hidden away by muscle.

"Banner puny. Weak. Sad."

"But not you."

"Hulk. . .angry."

"You don't have to be angry. If you weren't angry, it might make it easier for him to let you out more, ya know?"

He growled then. She had taken it too far, suggesting Bruce allowed him anything. She knew it the second the words left her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You're the boss." Her heart thumped.

"Hulk boss."

"Yeah."

He looked at her one more time before returning his attention to the branch in front of him. It was almost completely smooth, every last shred of bark picked off. Natasha spied another branch of the same type nearby—big shreds of bark hanging off of it. She rose slowly and walked over to it, picking it up and bringing it back to the Hulk. He eyed her as she approached and held it out—a literal sort of olive branch. He took it from her, but she didn't move, didn't return to her seat. Instead, she held her hand out.

He eyed the hand warily—he knew what it meant. He didn't seem mad though. He lifted his hand and set it on hers without much fuss. She felt the weight of it—it was so heavy, she doubted she could hold it without his help. His skin didn't feel all that different from a human. She imagined that it felt like the cross between an elephant and a human—she'd never touched an elephant, but the comparison seemed apt.

Before she had even lifted her other hand, he began shrinking. He stood and staggered away from her, making it only a few feet before collapsing to the ground. Nat exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Thankfully his pants hadn't completely ripped this time, so he had some dignity.

She approached him slowly. He was curled up in the fetal position, lying still on the ground.

"Bruce?"

She got closer and knelt next to him. "Bruce?" she asked again.

She was almost surprised when he lashed out—he was still painfully slow compared to her. The Hulk may have been strong, but one thing Bruce Banner did not have was combat training. She was able to stop his swinging elbow, then to brush aside his fist as he swung at her.

"Bruce, what the hell?" she asked, standing and backing away. He staggered to his feet slowly and looked at her. The look was back in his eyes again—that haunted, anguished, emptiness.

"I hate this. I hate everything about this. I hate that you can do this to me!" he shouted. He rushed at her again. This time Natasha was ready—she grabbed his wrists as he swung at her, holding them in the air between them. They locked eyes for a moment. Natasha didn't think she'd ever seen Bruce get fully _angry_ before. Anger had always been the Hulks domain. Bruce pushed, shoving her into the tree behind them. She landed with a thud, pinned.

Before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers.

It was ferocious, almost animalistic the way he attacked her, pressing his body against hers, parting her teeth with his tongue and taking control with a commanding presence she never knew he had in him. She didn't stop him, didn't resist, just let herself be pinned.

When he reached for the zipper on her suit, she saw her window and pushed him backwards, down to the ground. She straddled him and kissed him again. That didn't work for him though—he needed control. This moment was his. He rolled her over, grasped her wrists and brought them above her head, held them there, out of the way.

Natasha had never felt so powerless.

When his hand found her zipper once more and began yanking it down, she had had enough. Gently, she slid her wrists out from his grasp and pushed him off.

The air went out of him like a balloon. He rolled over to lay on the ground next to her. They were both panting. The air buzzed around them, still electrified.

Nat swept tendrils of her hair out of her face, taking care where it had stuck to the sweat at her temples. Bruce ran his fingers through his own, a mess of curls, bark, dirt and leaves.

"What happened to running with it?" he finally asked, his voice wry.

"That wasn't running," Natasha muttered. "That was . . . a stampede."

She didn't look, but she swore she could feel him smiling next to her.

They lay there for a few minutes, catching their breath, collecting themselves. They were no more than six inches apart, but they didn't turn to look at each other.

Finally, Natasha did. She rolled to her side, leaning her head on her hand.

"What the fuck was that?" she asked. Bruce kept looking straight up above them, into the canopy.

"I don't know."

"I don't buy that."

"I hate that I still want you." He still didn't look at her.

"I know the feeling," she snorted, laying back down again. They laid in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

"I think my life is ruined, and then I find a way to ruin it all over again."

Nat sat up, looking at the sun setting beyond the trees, out over the water. It lit the sky in splashes of orange, coral, and magenta.

"Is it ruined, or just different than you planned? They don't have to be the same thing, you know."

He blew out a breath slowly.

"Maybe there's a silver lining you're missing," Nat offered.

She tapped his hand and he flinched, then sat up. He rubbed leaves off the back of his head and took in the stunning view before them.

"Maybe," he relented.

She stood and offered him a hand up. He took it.

They walked out to the beach together and turned north. Their sunset walk was silent, contemplative. Neither of them wanted to burst the moment, the memory of their bodies so close. Just being near each other, just walking was enough. The ugliness could wait.

It took them two hours to get back, compared to the day and a half journey through the jungle they had taken to get there. Nat could have gone faster by herself, but Bruce was slower than her, exhausted by the transformation and his still-healing feet. By the time they reached the cabana, night had fallen. The stars were insane—without any light pollution they sparkled brilliantly, filling the sky.

Bruce showered in the jet and pulled on one of his few remaining pairs of pants. He didn't bother with a shirt. Natasha was sitting on the beach staring at the ocean when he emerged. She stood as if to greet him, but they just looked at each other. She had changed while he was in the shower—she was in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He realized he had never seen her in shorts before. A few dresses, yes, but they always extended down to her knees, even if they were skin-tight and revealing in the chest. Now he saw why.

She had an impressive scar on her left thigh—a huge mottled thing that ran from just above her knee up and out to her hip, the top hidden by the hem of her shorts. Her right leg had its fair share of puckered scars too—smaller, patterned things. Shrapnel?

She observed him while he evaluated her. He was starting to fill out again—his chest didn't look as sunken, his collarbones not quite as pronounced. He had scars now too—the sores were healing well.

They stood there for a moment, but neither of them spoke. The peace was too nice, too different from what they'd had in the past week. Eventually Bruce gave a small smile, then turned and paced up the ramp to the cabana. Natasha took her turn to shower.

When she finished, she walked up to the cabana herself. She had slept on the porch every night so far—he had never invited her in, and she had never asked. Her sleeping roll was outside, ready and waiting for her. She peeked inside and saw him lying on the palm frond bed the Hulk had made. He wasn't in the center though, like he usually was. He was off to the side, lying on his back. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not with the dim light inside.

She longed to go to him. To slide in beside him and finish what they had started. A tightness in her chest stopped her though. It wouldn't be right—he probably wouldn't even let her in the bed. Sleeping with him now would just be. . . manipulative. Cruel. He wanted her, but he also hated her. She didn't blame him.

She picked up her sleeping roll and took it out to the beach. She'd sleep under the stars and try to believe that she didn't want to be with him. That if she did, it was because her body wanted it, nothing more. That her feelings for him were an inconvenience, temporary, that would boil away once she set in to recruiting him, to wooing him to her cause. She tossed and turned, trying to force the thoughts into her head, to believe them. She saw three shooting stars as she tried to sleep. She didn't wish on a single one.


	11. The Dark Side

When Nat woke up in the morning, Bruce had already gotten to work on a meal for them. Fresh mango was sliced into cubes and set out on a plate, a coconut was halved, its juice poured into a wooden cup next to it. A sweet potato was sliced and steaming next to a rasher of bacon.

Bruce was sitting on the sand with the food on an upturned crate next to him. He had put a shirt on and was savoring a sliver of coconut, looking at the water.

Nat sat up slowly, tucking her hair behind her ears and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She never slept later than him—this was unusual. And how had he not woken her? The sand would muffle his movements, but the sound of all this prep should definitely have roused her. Where the fuck was her training? She scanned the spread before her and couldn't help but smile.

"Since when did you go and get all domestic on me?" she teased.

"Thought it was about time I started doing my fair share around here."

"Well, it smells delightful," she stood and stretched.

"Come dig in," Bruce offered, shaving off a sliver of coconut with a knife. They ate in companionable silence for a while.

"You seem better," Natasha finally began. She didn't want to set him off again, but even the peaceful respite was starting to give in to the tension of two days prior.

"I am." Bruce replied.

He didn't offer more. It was unlike him. Natasha didn't push. She'd be doing enough pushing later. They ate in silence once more.

"So, what did you really do this past year?" Bruce asked. "You couldn't have just been training day in day out. You'd go crazy."

Nat took a sip of the coconut juice and smiled.

"You're not wrong. I kind of did."

"Oh?"

"I had weekends at Clint and Laura's, occasionally. That was nice."

" _Nice?_ " he guffawed.

"Oh, shut up! It _was_ nice. Not mine, but nice." She bit a piece of mango. "I really did spend most of that time training. And searching for you."

"Really?" He still somehow seemed surprised.

"Yeah. You're a pretty tough nut to crack when you're green, ya know."

"Not my issue," Bruce shrugged.

"How about you? You said you remembered some things, but you never shared anything."

"It doesn't really work like memory. I mean, it doesn't feel like I'm missing time or anything. The last thing I remember will feel like it happened right before I woke up, but it'll also be strangely distant, sort of like a dream you can't really remember. I don't know if that makes sense."

"No, it does."

"I remember the crash, I think. I think it was in water. Walking felt really heavy. And I think I remember finding the cabana. It kind of jolted him—he wasn't expecting humanity. He thought he had escaped it. I don't know if that's what he was going for, but the cabana seemed out of place to him. Like a human might turn the corner and start shooting at him at any second."

"Wow. You got all that?"

"Kind of."

"Can you feel him right now?"

"I always feel him."

That quieted her. Bruce took a slice of mango and bit into it, chewing contemplatively. Natasha watched him, her food forgotten.

"Bruce, you weren't. . . whatever happened after Sokovia, you weren't going to try anything, were you?" Natasha hesitated, afraid of offending him. She had to know.

"What—me? Like. . . hurting myself?" He shook his head. "No. I don't think—I mean, he wouldn't like that. I honestly don't know if I could. Seems kind of pointless."

"What were you hoping for then? Really?"

Bruce looked down at his feet, lifting sand with his toes over and over again. It was his first day without the bandages.

"I really did want to get off planet. I don't know. Work with him. Know him. It's hard because I never trust, I never willingly let go. I thought, if I removed the innocent lives from the equation, maybe I'd have some time without all the pressure. No Hydra, no battles, no rage. Just me and him. It clearly didn't go that well though," Bruce chuckled. "He didn't want to share."

"Can you blame him?"

"Not really."

Natasha smiled. "He's not that bad a guy."

Bruce snorted. "I wouldn't know. Only times he and I see each other, shit tends to be hitting the fan."

"And if it weren't, you think you'd get along?"

"I mean, history says no."

"But you think you can change that," Natasha pushed. Bruce turned and looked at her.

"I'm not coming back." he said flatly.

"Even if you knew him? Trusted him?"

"I don't think that's possible, Natasha. I just don't."

"I do."

"Well that's great for you, but he's my monster and it's my decision. I don't have a hero complex like you."

"I'm not a hero."

"You act like one."

"No, I don't." The cold fury in her voice stopped Bruce in his tracks. He dropped his feigned nonchalance and looked at her.

"You're not your past, Natasha."

"Neither are you."

"I'm not having this conversation again."

"Ok. Go ahead," Natasha scoffed. "Kill and maim and ruin lives and then go run and hide from it and cry self-pitying tears for how awful life is as piss-poor pacifist Bruce Banner with the big green monster inside." Natasha spat the words out. She had never been so cruel with him before. He sat there, shocked.

"You've got no idea who I am, Bruce. You think I have some moral complex over spilling the blood of a few mob bosses? A few drug lords? I killed kids, Bruce. Families. I did it and I turned and walked away like it was nothing. I was numb to it—it meant nothing to me. I just—" she broke off. Something caught her throat and she swallowed a few times, trying to clear the lump.

"Nat, it's not. . . I didn't know."

"I know you didn't. I know. Because you are fighting the hardest battle on the face of the planet, right? Bruce Banner versus the evil Hulk, Dr. Jekyll and Monster Hyde."

Bruce looked down at the sand, abashed.

"The reason I'm ok—that I don't give in to all this shit? My past? It's the Avengers. Yeah, they're messed up. And there's drama, and they make poor choices and tell bad jokes and fight more often than they need to. But they're _good._ And you look at me every time I say that like it's some stupid platitude, some mantra I repeat to myself that doesn't mean anything. But it does."

She looked out to the water and began absent-mindedly tracing the scar on her left leg, following the groove it made in her muscle from the hem of her shorts down to her knee.

"I deliver care packages for the Sokovian refugees every month. Refugees that wouldn't be alive if it weren't for us. It's hard to see them, dirty, living in tents or tenements. They make murals on the sides of buildings; photos of the missing, tributes to the dead. But they're grateful when I arrive. They draw pictures of me, of you, all of us. They remember."

Bruce followed her finger with his eyes as it traced her leg.

"You can do that," Bruce countered. "I can't. Not with him still in there."

"You owe them the decency of trying." Natasha argued. "You feel so bad about Johannesburg? Get your shit together, fly in with resources and make it better. Rebuild a street, fund some scholarships, give out groceries. Write a check. Make it right."

"Get my shit together," Bruce repeated incredulously. He rubbed the back of his neck, agitated. "You say that like it's nothing."

"No, I don't. It's hard work. It's fucking brutal. You try and you try and you try for years sometimes. You go months feeling like you make no progress at all. You train and you think and you fail and you go back to the drawing board and you think and you train again. But this giving up you're doing?" She stood and looked down on him. "It's not a good look, Bruce."

She left him there, dumbstruck, and walked down to the water, wading in up to her ankles. Her heart was thrumming in her chest. She had never been so terse with him, so straightforward. It went against everything she had worked on with him back at Avengers tower—her soothing voice, lulling words, sweet and tender persona. It was Black Widow, unapologetic, hard, cunning. She hated it. She hated it and simultaneously hoped to god it would get through to him.

"Nat," he pled. He was behind her. "It's not like that. Just training—it doesn't do anything. He's there or he's not. You know that, you remember, before Ultron. . ."

"You've never once deliberately brought him out." She didn't look at him, sweeping her feet through the water.

"What if I can't get him back in?"

"Have I ever failed you?"

"I mean, yes? When you first got here? I distinctly remember—you were there, and it was nighttime, and we were in the jungle but then, when I woke up, I was on the beach, and it was daytime."

"Yes, but was that him fighting the shift, or you?" Nat looked up at him. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but stopped.

"We're past breathing exercises, Bruce. If you want to work with him, you've got to really _work_ with him. Give and take. He's not some useless dumbbell rage machine. He has thoughts and feelings too, and if we listened to them maybe we could get him over to our side."

" _Our_ side?"

"When I say I hate quitters, I mean myself too," Natasha stated.

Bruce gaped at her for a moment, half disbelieving, half resentful. He shook his head noiselessly, rubbing his hands down his shirt before wringing them together.

"This is crazy," he spluttered. "Absolutely insane."

"So you'll do it?" Natasha grinned, her eyes sparkling.

Bruce didn't look at her, shaking his head noiselessly.

Nat leaned over and splashed some water at him, making him jump a foot in the air, yanked from his thoughts.

"Bruce?"

"Fine. Yeah. I guess so." he shook his head, incredulous. "Why, Banner?" he muttered to himself. "Why?"

Nat smirked to herself, wading out further into the water.


	12. Easy

"Ok, what now?" Bruce stood on the sand looking at Natasha.

They were about a kilometer north of the cabana, still on the west beach of the island. They had hiked away from their supplies and shelter for their first practice session.

"Now you get mad." Nat crossed her arms and watched him dubiously. She didn't know if he could do that. _I'm always angry,_ he had said in New York, but she knew that wasn't true. She knew only a few things really got him going. She was one of those things.

"And then what?"

"I take your pulse. You tell me how you feel. We see where your threshold really is."

"And if I go green?"

"I ask him if he's ok with this. See what his triggers are, what makes him shift."

"Won't he be a bit pissed for that?" Bruce asked dubiously.

"He hasn't been too angry the last few times I've seen him," Nat replied thoughtfully. That wasn't exactly true—she remembered their first encounter on the island, his glowering face staring up at her perched in the tree above. But then the next day, he had been calm. And just the day before, he was calm again. He liked the island, she realized. He had been mad when she disrupted his time there—who wouldn't be? But he wasn't just uselessly rageful every time he was out. Just at the beginning, since rage was what usually triggered him. He didn't like staying that way though.

"Ok, I feel like that's a big gamble to take," Bruce said, his voice still doubtful.

"I can handle him. Now stop delaying." Nat walked towards him and he backed up quickly. Nat froze, embarrassed.

"I'm just gonna take your pulse. Jeez, calm down." Nat tried to not let any red creep into her burning cheeks. Banner also reddened, but he allowed her to approach. She took his wrist in her hand and pressed two fingers just below his palm. His skin was surprisingly soft, the hair on his arm downy. After a moment of searching she found it. His pulse was quick, thrumming. She closed her eyes to concentrate on it, trying to count.

"Well?" Bruce asked.

"Are you trying to get mad?" Nat replied.

"I mean, yeah, kinda."

"Well, try harder." Nat looked at her watch. It matched her gauntlets—a nice touch from Tony.

"You know, 200 beats per minute is dangerous," Bruce pointed out. "They say that the maximum heartrate someone should ever hit is 220 minus their age. That means I should never be above. . ." he trailed off.

"What, afraid to let on how old you are? I already know you're a geezer," Nat teased. She felt his pulse spike as she spoke. He was hovering around a hundred beats per minute. "You've got a ways to go if you're going for green," Nat reminded him. Another minor spike as she spoke.

"I'm sorry, I'm just—this isn't really a stressful environment."

"Do you want me to help?"

"Not really."

"I feel like I've gotten good at making you mad these days," Nat smiled.

"I know. That's why I don't want your help. You start talking and he's bound to come out."

"I don't mind his company."

Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked at her dubiously.

"What?! He's pretty chill recently, he likes the island, he lets me enjoy my peace and quiet."

"And I don't?"

"I mean, our quiet isn't really peaceful," Nat pointed out. She felt his heartrate rise with that one. Abruptly, he yanked his wrist out of her hand.

"I don't like this, it's like you get to have this conversation with a polygraph on me. No fair."

"Ok, what do you propose? We use the jets biometrics and risk you smashing it to pieces?"

"Ya know, you seem really attached to that jet considering you never seem to plan on using it."

"When I get in that jet, it's a one way trip, and you're coming with me," Nat snapped back. Bruce glared at her. In their banter he had almost forgotten her intent for the exercise.

"Doesn't Steve need you for something?" he asked grumpily. "I'm sure Sam and Rhodes are beating on him every day without you there."

"He'll be ok. He's a tough cookie." The sarcasm dripped from her voice. "Now stop delaying. Let's do this." She held out her hand again expectantly, waiting for his wrist. Bruce didn't offer it.

"I'm sorry, I just think that this isn't going to work. I don't want him to come out right now. I just want to _be_ for a while. I don't want to worry about all that."

"You always worry."

"I mean, yeah, but this is just, I mean, it's like tempting fate."

"I think that's the very definition of what it means to be an Avenger."

"I'm not an Avenger," Bruce corrected.

"Ooh, this is good, keep going," Nat said excitedly, beckoning him to continue. He just looked at her, his frustration obvious. Nat huffed.

"Ok, fine. We need another way."

"Another way of what?"

"Getting your heart rate up."

"I'm not running, if that's what you're implying."

"No running, promise," Nat held up her hand like she was taking an oath. Suddenly, she had an idea.

"I have another way in mind," she said, her voice suddenly husky. With a turn of her head and a shift in her weight, Nat was abruptly alluring. She looked at him through her lashes and bit her lip, the image of seductiveness. Bruce blanched.

"No. No, no, no, no, NO," he stuttered. "Natasha, come on now, don't do this," he backed away from her, his hands up.

Just as quickly as it came on, Nat let it drop, and suddenly she was just her casual self again, t-shirt and shorts and athletic, ready stance. Bruce shook his head.

"How do you _do_ that?" he asked.

"Why do you ask? Did it work?" There was a twinkle in Nat's eye as she asked. She knew it worked—it always worked. Bruce scratched the back of his neck and refused to meet her eye.

"I think—ya know what, I just—I think this is a bad idea. Maybe we were a bit ambitious with this plan. I think we need to try something else."

"So it took you approximately ten minutes to quit." Natasha's voice was flat.

"No! I'm just not in the mental place for it right now."

"So get there," Nat snapped, her eyes steely.

Bruce looked at her, serious. She could see the gears turning in his brain—he wanted to prove her wrong, but he also didn't want to do this. She watched as spite won.

"Fine. Piss me off." He stepped back and crossed his arms, not breaking eye contact.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Ok," Nat said. "I just want you to know, before we do this, that I don't mean what I'm about to say."

"Yes you do. That's why it'll work," Bruce-smiled bitterly. Nat grimaced. She didn't like where this was going.

"Johannesburg," she began slowly.

"That's guilt, not anger."

"The way Wanda just walked up to you and got in your head like it was nothing? That's guilt? You say all the time that you're a liability and wow, you most definitely were that day. There's a gym at the tower for what, decoration? For Thor to show off every time he visits? A few hours a week and you could have had her pinned, but no, some waif of a girl shows up and suddenly you're green and tearing up a city."

Bruce kept his arms crossed, still looking at Natasha. She felt herself settling into the cold calm of her interrogation technique. She looked in his eyes and saw everything he was feeling—he was an open book. Seeing that guilt, the impatience, the anxiety, it tripped her. She was used to steely, cold, uncaring subjects. Bruce was none of those things.

She wracked her mind for what to say next. She had trained for this—for cruelty. Why was it so hard now?

"Thor would decimate you in battle. Mjolnir could take you down," she hesitated. He didn't care about that. Who was the mightiest or strongest or most worthy were things that Cap and Thor cared about, not Bruce.

"Oh c'mon Nat, don't get soft on me now," he teased. Nat gritted her teeth. She wanted to piss him off, not hurt his feelings. And everything she was thinking of—his lack of self-esteem, his passivity, his loneliness, his aching desire for things to be ok—was what made him who he was. She couldn't tear that apart. The goal was anger, not existentialism. She loved those parts of him—she didn't want to attack them. She silently cursed.

"Yesterday. You let me shove you off," she jabbed. She watched his eyebrows rise, surprised she would mention that. She was surprised too. "You gave up—just like that. Why are you so afraid? You claim to have these convictions, right? So have them."

That one struck a nerve. She watched his jaw twitch. She was transported back to Clint's house—the quiet upstairs guest room, with the powder blue bathroom and the windows letting in late afternoon sun.

"Go after what you want. And don't say it's another PhD. Make a move, Bruce. Stop being afraid of your own life—it's gonna happen no matter what. You can't run from it."

He was gritting his teeth now; Nat could hear the grinding sound of enamel on enamel. She felt her heart skip a beat as she realized what she had to say next.

"You thought you'd hurt her," Natasha started slowly. She only knew the most basic outline of Bruce's life before the Avengers. "Thought she couldn't see past the green. So you left. How fucking easy. What a cop-out. Blame it on the big guy."

"That's enough," Bruce hissed. He shut his eyes tightly, his brow furrowing. Nat watched him, trying to drink in every detail.

His veins seemed to grow and darken—were his shoulders widening? No green though. He breathed in and out, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

"Let me take your pulse," she stepped closer, but he turned away, shutting her out. She could see it in his temple, throbbing.

In a moment it was over. A few more breaths and she watched the tension flow out of him. His shoulders sagged.

"What did you notice?" she asked tentatively.

"Anger." He replied tersely.

Nat bit her lip. Bruce took a breath, calming himself.

"He's in there," he continued. "I don't think he's mad though. I could just. . . feel him more."

"That's good, right?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Nat paused. "Should we try again?"

"I think I got it this time," Bruce replied.

"Ok, but let me take your pulse. If you go green I can handle it."

Bruce gritted his teeth. She knew he wanted to say no, to protest her nonchalant treatment of the other guy. He didn't though, instead just holding his wrist out passively. Nat grasped it and rooted around for a moment until she found a soft spot where she could feel his blood rushing beneath the skin.

His pulse was racing. Nat closed her eyes and concentrated, felt it rising beneath her fingers. She opened her eyes and peered at her watch, trying to simultaneously count and keep track of time. He shot up past 130 beats per minute, 140, 150, 160. He yanked his wrist back and walked briskly away from her, up the beach. Nat watched him walk. The back of his neck was green, his left shoulder lopsidedly swollen, larger than his right. As he walked it went down, the green retreating back to his veins.

"Wow, Bruce. That was good. Really good. I saw—you kept him at bay."

Bruce sat down on a massive driftwood log and put his head in his hands. Nat walked up and sat next to him. She didn't say anything, letting him calm down. Eventually he spoke.

"I don't like this. What are we learning? That when I get mad, the Hulk comes out? Big surprise there."

"You had just gone past 160 bpm when you pulled away. We have an idea of where the shift might take place now."

"How do we know it was the pulse and not the anger?"

"We don't. Not yet at least. We can separate the two though."

"I said no running," Bruce reminded her. "You promised."

"Fine, no running. How do you feel about kickboxing?" Natasha asked. She tried to quash the tightness in her chest. _You promised_.

"If I kickbox right now I'm just going to get mad again."

"Ok. So we take a siesta and come back in a few hours. Sounds good to me."

Nat jumped to her feet and walked away quickly, leaving Bruce speechless behind her. She didn't want him to see the look on her face. Hurting him like that had been harder than it should have been.

* * *

They did go back in a few hours. Nat taught him the basic steps, a few jabs and kicks, and then did some figures with him. When he was sweating and exhausted, Bruce sat down and drank some water and realized that while he could feel him, the Hulk wasn't threatening to burst forth. He was just _there_. A little closer, perhaps, but there.

And so they began their real work; raising his heart rate, allowing the Hulk halfway out, not angry, just there, then Bruce re-asserting himself and calming back down. A couple times he got nearly halfway through a shift—ripping a few shirts along the way—before returning to himself. Slowly he grew more confident, more trusting of his own ability to regulate. He exchanged words with the Hulk once in an awkward transition state and Nat was almost gloating. Everything was great—the three of them were finally talking. Until it went too far.

It was four days after they had started his training in earnest. They had taken to kickboxing in the morning—Nat would teach him new things each day, they'd do reps of the figures he had learned so far, then they'd spar. The kickboxing was reliable—it raised Bruce's heart rate, and he was learning some valuable hand to hand skills he never had before. He didn't say anything, but Nat's jab about the Scarlet Witch taking him down so easily had gotten under his skin. He threw himself into learning with an attention she hadn't expected from a middle-aged lab geek.

They were having fun with it, the morning he did go green. They had started getting lazy in how far away from the cabana they walked—maybe only a half-kilometer, so it was still in sight in the distance. They were laughing, Bruce trying to uppercut Natasha and failing miserably. She never went easy on him. She'd allow him his slow practice hits to get the motion down, and they'd do reps for him to get the fast-twitch motions, but every time they sparred she just took him down unapologetically. This time in particular, he had started tickling her every time she pinned him.

She wasn't really that ticklish—she could ignore it if she wanted, but she didn't want to. It was nice hearing Bruce laugh, and being close to him, and being touched. They jumped back up, still giggling, and she got in ready stance. So did he, but after she landed her first blow on his bicep, he just exploded. It happened before either of them knew what was happening.

The Hulk roared and lunged at Natasha. She ducked, but his swatting hand caught her hip and threw her to the ground a few feet away. She twisted her gauntlet and tased him, once, twice, three times. On the third one he stayed down, convulsing on the sand. Natasha sat up and rubbed her hip—she was going to have an ugly bruise. The Hulk lay there, panting, but didn't make an effort to get up.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry, I didn't want to do that. Are you ok?" she asked. Before he could roar in response or attack again, the Hulk started shrinking. Bruce was back, less than a minute after going green. He groaned and curled up tightly on the sand.

Natasha was simultaneously ashamed of their laziness in not walking further from the cabana, and relieved. She had to hold Bruce up to walk him back to their campsite, his legs weak as jelly from the repeated tasers. She forced herself to walk evenly, despite the fact that her left hip made a strange grinding sound every time her leg moved forward. It radiated heat and pain into her body. They didn't talk as they walked, both shaken. They had been growing confident, even cocky, with their training. This was a definite knock.

It took some convincing the next day to get a very sore Bruce back out to the beach, but Natasha managed it. She didn't mention her hip, and with some painkillers and anti-inflammatories from the jet she didn't even have to limp. Bruce was utterly convinced that he could never work with the Hulk—not if a change could happen with that little warning. Nat was hard-pressed to come up with a counter-argument.

She was silently relieved for the lapse—it meant she could justify staying longer. The way he had been improving, she had been planning on only staying a few days more. She didn't want to think of their island time ending, but she could feel the pull to get back stateside. She didn't want to turn on the comm unit and get a lengthy lecture from Steve or Fury, but she was also worried she might miss something important. She'd kick herself if a crisis happened and she wasn't there to help. Working with Bruce was important, it was what she wanted to be doing, but duty called. She just needed him to feel the same way. And that sudden shift, right when they were finally starting to get along, to work together towards a shared vision? It threw a wrench in that.

Bruce was even more convinced he would never go back to society again. He was also relieved; maybe now she'd believe him. Silently, he was almost afraid she _would_ give up—their days together had become fun. If she didn't think he was going back, she'd leave him there. She'd go back and stay faithful to her personal moral compass, and he'd have to do his best to follow through on his. His was seeming less appealing, however, if it meant watching her go.

After a day off they kept training, more tentatively, more safely, but still playing with fire, tempting the Hulk and sending him back inside. There wasn't another lapse like that one, but the Hulk was angrier the next few times he got to half-emerge. Then he calmed down, almost sullen, refusing to speak to them at all. For Bruce, it was a victory. For Nat, it was concerning, but she let it go, glad that Bruce's confidence was bolstered.

They ate rations from the jet, and Nat figured out how to catch fish from the tide pools south of the cabana. They feasted on the fruit the island grew and figured out new ways to eat the potatoes and other roots Nat had bought at the market, what felt like forever ago.

They built fires each night and played cards together, swapped stories of Tony and Cap being ridiculous, testosterone fueled maniacs—who they both also cared for very deeply. Nat talked about the algorithms she had used to find him, and Bruce broke down for her what he knew about the science behind making Vision—Nat had always been curious about it, but Dr. Cho was back in Korea and Tony was apathetic about it at best. She wasn't close enough with Vision to ask, and watching him with Wanda always put an unsettling feeling in her stomach. She left them alone in lieu of her lonely computer most nights back at HQ.

Days blurred together and time passed quickly. Soon, it had been two weeks of training. There was an easy-going rhythm to their dynamic—one based on clear, unspoken rules. They never talked about their pasts. Natasha knew Bruce had loved someone, a woman named Betty, but she had never met her, and he didn't want to talk about it. She had prodded him on it to get him mad that first day of training, but she never mentioned it again, afraid it would become a schism between them, an awkward, irritating barrier. He didn't ask about the Red Room, about her work or missions before SHIELD. They didn't talk about the future or when they'd go back. It was fragile, but it worked. It was easy to live in those margins, in the present, in their life as they shared it starting in India just a few years ago. They had ample things to talk about—science, the Avengers, their enemies, even politics and the state of the world at large.

It was easy. Just talking, training, thinking and studying. No pretending, no lying, no fighting. Laughing together in the warm glow of the fire, swimming in the ocean and marveling at bioluminescent phytoplankton together—Bruce told her all about them and Natasha splashed him with water and called him a dork. Sparring on the sand under the hot tropical sun, Nat taking Bruce down over and over again, then running out into the water to cool down afterwards. Bruce trying—and failing—to identify constellations, eventually just naming his own, much to Nat's chagrin as she tried to teach him to navigate by the stars. Easy.


	13. Whose is Bigger?

"So I tell Sam he can't use his wings, and I tell Vision he can't change his density—he always does that so you try and punch him and then just end up lurching through him instead—and I tell them they have three minutes to duke it out. And you know what Vision does?"

"What?" Bruce asked, entranced. They were sitting next to a crackling fire. The breeze made the air just cool enough that its warmth was welcome, and they were sitting on Nat's unzipped sleeping roll, enjoying the night air and each other's company.

"Vision used his _cape_."

"What? How?"

"It's as much a part of his body as his arms or legs, apparently. He grabbed Sam by the ankle and dangled him over Rhodes and Wanda—who were cracking up—and offered a truce."

"Not much of a truce if you make it while dangling by your ankle."

"Fair, but Sam had it coming."

"Why?"

"He started just going into Vision's room every few hours. Just opening the door and walking in."

"That seems like an invasion of privacy," Bruce remarked.

"That was the point. It's almost exactly what Vision does, when he just goes through walls or the floor to get somewhere. It's like we have a ghost."

"So then why was Vision so upset?"

"Because Sam had walked in on him in a—well, let's just say a _sensitive_ moment."

"Wait. . . are you saying. . ."

"Yeah. Yeah I am saying."

"With who?"

"Who do you think?"

" _Wanda?"_ Bruce was incredulous.

"Rhodes and Sam go back to the Capitol pretty frequently, so it's often just Vision and Wanda in the main living quarters. I guess they got close."

"What about you?"

"I don't spend much time there."

"Why not?" Bruce asked. Natasha bit her lip. She hadn't lied to him about how much time she spent looking for him, but she felt like if he knew the full extent he might be a bit creeped out.

"They're all young, excited, passionate. I'm just past that, I guess."

"Jaded much?" Bruce playfully elbowed her. Nat rocked sideways, smiling self-deprecatingly. She didn't say anything.

"Ok but, I mean, you do wonder. . . right?" Bruce asked. His eyebrows were raised and he smiled mischievously at Nat, almost guilty.

"Wonder what?"

"About Vision!"

"Are you seriously asking me about that?!"

"Well, I mean, aren't you curious?"

Natasha laughed aloud. "Not _that_ curious!"

"Ok, ok, but honestly, you do have to wonder, right? Just. . . what do you think that's like?"

"I don't know. They're cute. Kind of hot and cold, off and on. It's clear they care very much about one another, but I think that's why they dance around it so much. I'm not sure if they'd even admit to themselves that they're a thing."

"Why do you think people are like that?" Bruce asked, suddenly contemplative.

"Well, I mean, Vision's not really a person," Nat teased. Bruce was lost in thought though.

He lay back on the sleeping roll to look at the stars. The fire was starting to burn down to coals, so the tongues of flame didn't block out the starscape above. Nat watched him. His stubble had come in since she had found him, almost three weeks ago now. His beard was salt and pepper, as were his sideburns, but his hair was still thick and dark brown and curly.

"People are like that because life is complicated," Nat sighed. "Relationships work when both sides prioritize them and decide to simplify. If everything else is more important, it just falls away."

She lay back beside him, looking at the stars. A shooting star appeared for a brief moment, flashing in and out of sight.

"Did you see that?" Bruce whispered.

"Yeah."

"Did you wish?"

"I don't know what I'd wish for."

"I do."

The weight of his words was enough—the air was already thick between them. Nat rolled over to face him. He looked at her, serious, giving her the opportunity to question or stop him. She didn't. He leaned in and kissed her.

For the first time, it wasn't a lightning strike, a tenuous, frightened moment. Natasha relaxed into the kiss, luxuriating in the peace of it. Bruce pulled her against him and she gladly gave, contouring her body around his—he was so warm, so solid.

Before long she was straddling him—her hands skating along his back, his neck, taking in every part of him. His hands were firm, powerful but respectful—she almost giggled to herself at the chasteness of it. He would move a hand up her back, cupping her shoulder blade, trailing his fingertips down her spine and leaving her tingling, but he never so much as grazed her chest. He didn't even try to take her shirt off. He sat up to get a better angle and she brushed her hand along the hem of his shirt, sliding up his chest beneath. He stiffened.

"Maybe we should go up to the cabana," he whispered.

"It's beautiful out here, under the stars," Natasha hummed in his ear, teasing his shirt up further. He kissed her again and tentatively fiddled with hers—Nat was too glad to pull it over her head, tossing it off to the side. Bruce drank in the sight of her—she was beautiful. And so scarred.

Beneath her collarbone was a burst of tiny marks spreading out down towards her armpit and over her bicep as well. A huge gash over her hip told a story of another time, and several more divots and pits were laid out across her abdomen. A faint line over the rise of her left breast into her sternum under her bra was visible as well—perhaps the oldest of the bunch. She had been so, so hurt.

Natasha let him look for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him again, forcing him to look away. She began to pull his shirt over his shoulders. He allowed her to, but she could instantly feel him stiffen.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. She could feel goosebumps rising on her back—she wanted to be against him once more, to share his warmth.

"It's just the shirt," Bruce whispered. Nat furrowed her brow in confusion.

"I've seen you shirtless before though. A lot."

"I know, I know, it's just. . . a bit harder. When I look like this and you look like that," Bruce eyed her figure up and down again. Her body was made of fine planes and delicate angles—a flat stomach, a narrow waist, the deliciously round swell of her breasts into angular shoulders. Bruce couldn't help but feel self-conscious in comparison. He wasn't _ugly_ , but he was pathetically average compared to the gorgeous woman in front of him. Nat bit her lip before gently pushing him down on his back.

She kissed him in the center of his chest, over one of his recent scars from the sores he had gained as the Hulk.

"I think you're beautiful right here," she murmured against his skin. On his left pec he had another one, and she kissed there as well. "Here too," she whispered.

She continued over his chest, along his arm, tracing her way over his body, kissing every possible imperfection he could worry over. He wasn't an unattractive man—well proportioned, lean, a mat of soft hair covering his chest—something Natasha found very becoming. She traced her thumb along a scar on his right shoulder. She didn't know how he had gotten it. He shivered at her touch before reaching up, tracing the scar on her hip. She froze at his touch and he wondered if he had done something wrong.

"Yours are beautiful too," he whispered.

Nat kissed him again, laying on top of him, relishing in the warmth.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

She should have been alarmed by this. Should have stopped it. Kissing was fine, but whispering, holding, murmuring—all of these set red alarms off in the back of her mind. They were things to be avoided, signs of weakness and attachment. Sex was good—great even, important for stress relief and often to loosen up physically. But this—this was the edge of a cliff.

His fingers traced down her spine and sent shivers through her entire body. His hand grazed over and around her hip, until his thumb arrived at the scar again. She didn't think of it, kissing him, working her hands slowly toward his zipper, but he kept tracing it, grazing his thumb back and forth. Nat sat up, pulling away from the touch.

He sat up as well, bringing them closer, her straddling his hips. He reached out and dragged his fingers down her collarbone, feeling the texture of the tiny scars below. Natasha froze again, unable to stop herself. Bruce felt her body tense beneath his touch.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispered. "But how did you get these?"

Instantly Natasha looked away, down the beach. She felt like she had been drenched in cold water.

"Natasha?"

"I just, I need a moment." She stood up abruptly and walked a few steps away, searching in the dark for her shirt. When she found it, she pulled it on before turning to face Bruce.

"I'm sorry, I won't ask again," Bruce tried to reassure her from where he sat, clearly confused.

"No, it's fine, it's no big deal," her voice was raspy. "I just don't want to be touched there. Or like that. Anymore."

The surprise on Bruce's face transitioned into shock, then hurt, then anger. Natasha watched it all, like a silent movie in front of her, playing for free.

"Ok," he replied, his voice icy. "Ok then. I see."

He stood up and walked away, beneath the cabana and north up the beach. Natasha watched him go, trying not to hyperventilate. She just couldn't. The panic in her throat took hold and she bit back a sob, feeling her heart pounding in her chest, thumping so loudly the roaring in her ears drowned out everything else. She sat in the sand and tried to breathe, tried to calm herself down. It didn't work. Her vision blurred into a dark tunnel and she felt hot tears roll down her cheeks.


	14. I'm Sorry

Natasha breathed in for four counts, held it for seven, and exhaled for eight. She did it again. Then again. The sounds of the jungle were starting to come back to her ears, the dull roar ebbing from her mind. She could feel every granule of sand beneath her. She could feel goosebumps on her neck, her arms, down her back. The fire was nothing but glowing embers. Bruce was gone.

She breathed in to four, held for seven, out to eight. She didn't know what had happened. That was a lie. She did. She just couldn't bring herself to admit it. She thought she might vomit and leaned over for a moment, sweat beading at her temples. It passed.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. She looked out at the water. The bioluminescence was out—each wave sparkled as it lapped against the shore. Natasha's lips felt puffy, tender. She grazed her finger across them, remembering the feel of Bruce—

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. She repeated it to herself, a mantra. After a few minutes, she could see why Bruce preferred it. It worked. She felt her heartrate slow, the nausea ease, the panic diminish.

So he had touched her scars. Her stomach churned at the thought of it. He had no idea—he couldn't know. She could lie. She didn't know why that didn't occur to her in the moment—just tell him it was New York, or some one-off SHIELD mission. He'd have believed her.

But she couldn't. She just couldn't, not about that. She breathed in and out slowly, trying to regulate. He knew some. She had told him: families. He knew a little bit. She kept repeating it to herself. She wanted to go to him so badly, to tell him the truth, but all she could picture was his face when she did, the horror in his expression as she recounted what she had done. A sob burst from her chest. She couldn't, she just couldn't. She swiped the tears from her face angrily.

The look of hurt and confusion on his face when she got up, when she told him she didn't want to be touched—it felt like a knife twisting in her gut. The impossibility of the moment struck her, weighed on her like a thousand tons. She wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, but he would never want to touch her again if he knew. The thought of the repulsion on his face spun in her mind. She gasped for air, another sob choking her.

It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this. She bit back tears as she realized what she had to do. She'd just have to tell him that she didn't feel for him like that anymore. That their time had passed. It was a dusty guest room in a rural house, a moment in a fortress, a shove, and then poof. Gone.

She had been selfish to come, selfish to try, awful for even thinking she could make this work. That she could pose as being worthy next to him, next to someone so honest and kind and naïve. She clutched her arm around her stomach as she stood, wobbly on her feet. She felt like she had a gaping hole inside her chest. Something had been ripped from her. As tightly as she held herself, she couldn't make it feel whole again. She looked north, up the beach, searching for him in the darkness. She didn't know how far he'd gone, how far she'd have to walk. She would deserve every slicing, miserable step. She could leave him to his dream now though—alone, undisturbed on the island, no longer a threat to anyone. It would be better.

She began to put her face back together as she walked. She rubbed the tears away, the salt burning on her skin. She felt where the pain pinched a muscle, where the grief pulled her expression into something she didn't want to show him. She worked steadily, distracting herself from the horrid emptiness inside her with the minor task of her face. Her face was what he would see.

She saw him about a hundred yards off. He was tossing rocks into the water, watching the ripples sparkle with the bioluminescence. Each one made a trail of warm blue light as it sank to the bottom.

Natasha stopped fifteen feet away. She couldn't force herself to get closer. He heard her approach, but he didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge her at all.

"I'm sorry," she began hesitantly. She hoped he couldn't hear the tears in her throat, the telltale scratch in her voice.

"Save it, Natasha." His voice was resigned, almost as empty as hers.

"Bruce—"

"No."

Natasha bit her lip, fighting the tears back. She couldn't speak now, or she'd cry, and then he'd know. She masked the wobble in her chin, looked up to the stars to clear her eyes, then forced herself to look at him.

"Do you see how impossible this is?" he asked. "You see every ugly part of me. You see me naked and weak and distraught, every time I come back, just shaken and guilty and messy. I know I'm an open book, Natasha, I know. I never learned like you, I never learned to mask what I feel or to pretend I'm something that I'm not. I'm just me, and I'm this monster, and somehow, you and I, we've developed this _toxic_ dynamic where I go through the highest of highs and lowest of lows in front of you, with you just, just _watching_ me.

"And I believe you feel tenderness for me, I do, I think you have something there, but I have to bare myself to you _every fucking time_ , and I get nothing back. Nothing. I just have to accept that you will see every part of me, _everything_ , every truth, every poor attempt at a lie, every insecurity, every moment of weakness, of callowness, of disregard or impatience or selfishness, you get all of it. And I will never, _ever_ see you. I will always see a picture of Natasha Romanoff, a highlight reel, a still image, exactly what Natasha Romanoff wants me to see.

"You say we're obligated to save the world, to do better, but how cruel is it, how unfair of you to put that expectation on me, and have it depend so utterly on this awful, toxic thing we've created? To say I have to save the world, and the only way I can do that is to rely on a woman who has grabbed my heart in my chest and twisted it around so many times it feels like it might explode at any second? I just don't know what to do with that Nat. I don't. I feel like I could say this ten times over and nothing will change in between, there's no aching part of my humanity you haven't seen, nothing that's swayed you yet, so why would I expect any different now?"

The defeat in his voice swept over Natasha. She looked at the ground, hugging her arms to her chest, wishing she could sink into the void she felt inside.

"You're right," she mumbled. He wasn't finished yet though, she could tell. He was breathing slowly, trying to stay calm. She didn't fear the Hulk right now—handling him would be preferable to what she was about to do. Finally, Bruce was ready to continue.

"So you come to this island. To what, to save me? To bring me back and make me do it all again? Every time we're together I have this pit in my stomach, this knowledge that I am so deeply invested in something you're not, that I am this pathetic mess of a man who has put you on some pedestal since you won't show me anything real, and I have no idea what that does to me, to him, to either of us, I don't feel safe with it, I don't trust it, and I can't trust you, as often as you do seem to calm him.

"I can't trust you. But I do, so implicitly it frightens me. The way I feel for you—the way it pulls me inside might break me Nat, it really might. And I can't—I won't—go back and willingly bring out this monster, this liability, if this is going to continue. I can't risk that, I can't risk our team, I can't risk more lives. I don't _know_ you Nat, I can't _know_ that he'll trust you, not if I don't, if I can't. I'm sorry. I just can't."

Nat breathed in slowly, feeling her heart speeding up in her chest. The way he felt about her. . . she shuddered. Did he feel like that about her, or the image of her?

Bruce just looked at her plaintively, waiting for her to say something, anything. She took a deep breath and set her jaw, trying to will herself forward. She took one faltering step, then another. Her legs were leaden. When she was in arms reach, she stopped again, refusing to meet his eyes.

She pulled her shirt over her head. Bruce opened his mouth, confused, but didn't say anything. The breeze skated along her skin, cold. Natasha brushed her fingers along her collarbone, grazing her hand over where the starburst of tiny scars was.

"We were going after some arms dealers who had sold faulty weapons to the KGB," she began slowly. Her mind was rushing, tripping over details and memories she had locked away for nearly a decade.

"It was one of my first missions—right after graduation. The dealers were on the run by that point—they knew what they had done. They weren't our assignment though.

"We went as students on the train. Wearing jeans back then was—well, it was new. We looked young and hip and we sat in third class and chewed gum and waited." She realized she was distracting herself, fixating on the small details trying to stop herself from what came next. She looked at her feet. She couldn't bear to face him.

"We got off at a water stop. We snuck into the yard and we slid open the door of the freight car they were in—they were hiding, they knew they were in trouble, they knew they had to stay quiet. I don't know how many there were. The car was full. All the wives, the kids. I think there was even a dog or two. We quieted them, made them think we were allies, come to get them to change trains. They believed us—we were young, feminine. We could be anybody. Anything.

"We told them to stay on the train. We poured gunpowder everywhere. They just watched us, wide-eyed. They were so removed from what their husbands, their fathers did, I don't think they even knew what gunpowder looked like. We lit it. I mean, I did. I lit the match.

"I stood a bit too close. So I got burned. We were trained for that—you bit your tongue off if you needed to, but you didn't make a sound." Natasha dragged her fingers over the burst of tiny scars again, remembering.

"I watched them burn. This woman. . .she stared at me. She screamed. I heard her scream—all of them. There was this little girl, right on the edge, she tried to jump out and I just—" she broke off, a sob choking her.

The tears wouldn't wait anymore. Her fingernails gouged into her skin where the burst of scars bunched, threatening to draw blood. Her other arm clutched at her midsection, trying desperately to hold herself together.

Suddenly, Bruce was there, his hand gently prizing her nails from her skin, laying her arm alongside her body, gathering her into his arms.

"Shhhh," he murmured, holding her. "Shhh, it's ok. It's ok."

Natasha cried hot tears, unable to hold them back anymore. She wanted to scream, to rip her hair out at the roots and throw it, to open her skin and remove everything inside herself. But she couldn't—Bruce held her, tightly, rocking gently back and forth.

She felt her lungs contract, unable to get air through the choking sobs. She felt her knees give out, incapable of holding her up anymore. Bruce sank with her gently to the ground, still holding her to his chest tightly.

"You're ok. It's ok. I've got you," he whispered into her hair. Natasha wanted to shout, to tell him to get away, to hide from her before whatever evil she felt inside herself infected him too, but she couldn't get a word out, the sobs wracking her body preventing her from speaking.

They stayed like that for a while. Eventually the tears slowed. She wept. Bruce never let go. Natasha slumped into him. She couldn't speak, didn't have the words to finish what she had started.

She could hear the screams in her mind, echoing. She flinched as she remembered a face, then another. The dull burn of the gunpowder sizzling in her shoulder and arm. She shivered. Bruce was so warm, she shrank into him.

"Shhh," he murmured. He tucked her hair behind her ear, pulled a tendril from where it was stuck to her face. He held her, not speaking.

Some time later, Bruce released his grip, gingerly, just long enough to get an arm beneath her knees and lift her. She didn't protest.

He carried her the entire way back to the cabana. Nat didn't say a word, bleary, drifting in and out from some awful fugue state, somewhere between the night sky and Bruce's scruffy beard and a frigid trainyard in Russia. She clung to him, her arms looped around his neck, hiding her face in his shoulder.

Bruce carried her up the ramp into the cabana and laid her down on the bed of reeds. He left her only long enough to pull off his tear stained shirt and lie down beside her, gathering her in his arms once more. He held her against his body, seeming to encase her, to protect her from the very space around them.

She drifted in and out of sleep, brief bits of consciousness yanking her from nightmares. She'd wake with a whimper, a twitch, pictures entering her mind she hadn't thought about in years. But every time she did, he held her, whispering softly in her ear, "you're ok, it's ok, I've got you."


	15. When You Wish Upon a Star

Natasha awoke to a pounding headache. She was curled up tightly in a ball—her left arm was asleep where she was lying on it and her back cracked and protested as she unfurled herself. She felt Bruce shift as she rolled over onto her back—he was sitting up, leaning against the wall of the cabana right next to her. His knees were pulled tightly to his chest, trying to give her room. She shuffled over slightly, allowing him to relax just a little.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hover," he said. "The nightmares seemed to come back every time I gave you more space, but when it started warming up I didn't want you to overheat."

Natasha closed her eyes and brought her hand up to her cheek. She felt her face slowly, starting with her lips, moving over her nose, her swollen eyes, her forehead. Her skin was salty from the sweat and tears. _God, what a mess._

"I am so sorry," she whispered.

"Don't do that. Don't apologize."

Natasha groaned and sat up slowly, every motion prodding her headache. A bottle of water was next to her on the floor. She took it and drank deeply. She couldn't remember the last time water had tasted so good.

She put her head between her knees and tried to process. She had told him about Kemerovo. The trainyard. A pit of shame and guilt sat in her stomach. She could feel the words she had said sliding amorphously in and out of her memory. Her mind was suddenly fuzzy.

She could smell antiseptic, hear the clanging of metal on metal, taste a bitter, dry taste on her tongue. The Red Room, echoing around in her mind. SHIELD had tested her extensively, ensuring that her conditioning wouldn't affect her in the field. That didn't mean it didn't affect her elsewhere. She could feel it tinkering around in her brain, making synapses misfire, putting feelings there that weren't her own.

She furrowed her brow and concentrated on fighting it. She had done it before, many times. She grimaced with the effort, remembering Bruce's face, the sound of the waves a few feet away, and the feel of the sand in between her toes.

"Nat, are you ok?" Bruce's voice was full of concern.

"Yeah, just hold on a sec," she whispered.

Kemerovo. The trainyard. Her headache intensified, throbbing in her temples and at the base of her neck. She needed to feel the horror and shame of it, she had to in order to stay connected to the moment instead of drawn back in time.

Eventually the fuzziness passed. She blew out a breath to the count of ten. Bruce watched her mouthing the numbers and had to bite back a smile—she was using the same breathing techniques she had taught him.

"I am so sorry," she finally spoke. "I shouldn't have fallen apart on you like that." She stood up too fast and had to pause for a moment to let the static clear from her vision and the dizziness pass.

"Nat, stop, please, just sit down and take a moment," Bruce jumped up after her.

"No, I didn't mean for any of this to happen—" she peered around the cabana for her tank top, suddenly feeling exposed in just her bra. She gave up and hugged her arms to her chest. "I have to go, I meant to leave—" she broke off again, her thoughts scattered.

"Wait, you were going to _leave?"_ Bruce's voice was incredulous.

"Yeah," Nat avoided looking at him. She checked the room once more for her shirt and then left, walking out and down the ramp to the beach. Bruce rushed after her.

"You can't do that!" he exclaimed. Nat walked up into the Quinjet and pulled a random shirt off the planning table inside, yanking it over her head. She didn't notice until it was on that it was one of his—a light yellow shirt that read "this shirt is blue, if you run fast enough". Some stupid physics pun, of course. She hesitated, leaving it on before digging around on the table for one of her own that was clean.

"Nat, stop, please, for the love of god, just stop and talk to me," Bruce pled from behind her. Natasha stopped, putting her hands on the table and taking a deep breath. She couldn't cry again—what a fucking disaster. Her face felt hot—he had carried her last night. Literally _carried_ her.

"Bruce, I didn't mean to—to fall apart like that. That was messy, it wasn't what I intended," she began. She didn't know how to do this.

"I'm glad you did."

Natasha turned to face him. She tried to keep her face stony. "It was a mistake."

"No—"

"Bruce." Her eyes flashed. He shut up. "I'm sorry. Everything you said on the beach was right. You were right. _Are_ right. I meant to—to agree. It won't work. You're right. You have been all along. I should have left you here, allowed you to choose your own path. It wasn't right to come here pushing my agenda on you. I'm sorry."

She turned back to the table and began rummaging for a shirt again. She found one, but didn't pull his off. He was still standing there; she could feel his eyes on her back. She turned to face him again. For possibly the first time ever, she couldn't read his face.

"Why did you bother telling me all that then?" he asked.

Nat breathed in sharply. She felt the thickening in her throat grow—she wouldn't cry again.

"You said you had an image of me. Only what I wanted you to see. I didn't want. . ." she paused, trying to think of how to word it. "I didn't want you to put me on a pedestal." She turned and walked further into the jet. She grabbed the carton of MRE's and carried it out to the beach—she would leave those for Bruce, he might need them.

"So that was your plan? Throw that at me and just leave? Just like that?"

Natasha didn't reply. She grabbed things from the beach haphazardly, crates and tools and navigation instruments.

"The first time I ever really see Natasha Romanoff and she's running away." Bruce said disbelievingly. Natasha froze.

"It's not like that," she said slowly.

"Isn't it?" Bruce asked. "The moment things started becoming real, you couldn't take it."

"Those things I did Bruce. . . what I said last night, that doesn't even scratch the surface."

"I don't care."

" _I do_. I can't . . . _inflict_ that on you." Natasha felt her chin wobble. Where were all of these fucking tears coming from?

"You didn't seem to think that a few days ago. Or last night, before I touched your scars."

"It's been a while." she mumbled.

"Since what, Natasha?"

She didn't answer.

" _Since what_? Since you cared for someone? Let someone in? Told the truth? Had sex? Since what?"

"Since anybody saw those." she breathed. Bruce froze—he had been speaking so harshly to her. He could still remember the feel of her in his arms, clinging to his neck, crying into his shirt. Of course she would run from that.

"When we were going after Hydra," Nat hesitated, "and then Ultron, I felt invincible. We were _The Avengers_. It felt so good. And then Sokovia happened. And you left."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Like I said—you were right. You deserved to stand up for yourself. It wasn't fair. I'm sorry I made you do it again last night. I just wanted you to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why I have to go."

"Natasha—"

"You deserve someone who's as good as you," Nat interrupted. "Who calms you. Who hasn't killed like I have, who doesn't represent all the things I know you hate in yourself. No more pretty picture," she stated. "Just me."

"Just you. _Just_ you." Bruce guffawed. Nat set the crate she was carrying down in the sand and sat on it, rubbing her temples. Bruce softened.

"Natasha," he hesitated. He sat next to her in the sand. "You are not everything I hate in myself. I was upset last night. It's hard not to feel. . . out of control. It's not you I don't trust, I shouldn't have said that, I just sometimes forget."

"You meant everything you said last night, Bruce. And you were right."

"Ok, maybe," Bruce countered. "But what you shared. . . it changes that."

Nat looked away.

"I can't imagine . . . I don't have words for it, Natasha. I'm so sorry you went through that."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. And I know you know that, but I'm going to say it anyways. Thank you for telling me."

Nat paused, evaluating his words. He meant them. "I don't talk about it much," she said quietly.

"I noticed," Bruce said wryly.

Nat half-smiled at that.

"Flashbacks?" Bruce asked. Nat nodded. He understood those.

They sat there in silence for a moment, both thinking about things they usually tried not to. Bruce was the first to shake it.

"Have you ever tried talking to someone about it?" he asked quietly. Nat was quiet for a moment. Then she snorted. He snickered as well. As if.

"I'm fine," Natasha eventually calmed enough to say. "I just have to keep moving. Keep doing what I've been doing."

"Avenging."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Which is why I have to go."

She stood up and picked the crate up she had been sitting on. Bruce stood up and followed her back into the jet noiselessly. She set the crate down and began sorting through the clothes on the planning table.

"Don't."

Natasha froze.

"Don't go."

"Bruce," she warned, keeping her eyes locked on the mounds of clothes in front of her. She couldn't lose her resolve now.

"Not yet. Please. We'll train. I'll—I'll come back. I will."

She whirled around to face him. "But you said—"

"I know what I said. I'm saying something different now." He stepped closer to her. She leaned back against the planning table.

"You were right last night. You shouldn't want me, you don't know me," she fumbled.

"I know what I want," he replied evenly.

"It's not just that story, Bruce. There are more. And I get mad, a lot. All the time—you don't do anger. I'll feel guilty, and I don't want to lie to you-"

"Natasha."

"What."

"I'll come back."

"Why?"

"Because I know you. And I know what I want." He took a step closer.

"You don't know me, Bruce."

"I do." He closed the distance between them.

He stood inches away, towering over her. Her heart started thrumming in her chest.

"I think you're beautiful here," Bruce whispered, laying his finger right over where her heart was. Natasha froze. "I think you're beautiful here," he brushed his thumb over her forehead, indicating her brain. "And I think you're beautiful here." His fingers grazed over her collarbone, where he knew the scars were hiding underneath his yellow shirt. Nat trembled, letting out a shaky breath.

"I don't. . ." she whispered.

"I don't know how to do this either, Nat. It's all a toss-up. But I'll try if you will."

"I'm not worth it," she breathed. "You have no idea. . ."

"You're good, Nat. _Good._ " The intensity of his whisper wrapped her heart in a vice grip.

He kissed her. She leaned into him, savoring the feeling. It felt good to believe that, even for a fleeting moment. It felt good to be held.

Then the guilt and shame rose in her again. She froze, the feeling of ice-cold water pouring over her once more. Bruce pulled back and saw the look in her eyes. Without a word he pulled her into his arms, holding her just like he had the night before.

"I'm going to have to fight an uphill battle to convince you you're not a terrible person, aren't I?" he murmured into her hair.

"Might as well call yourself Sisyphus," she whispered into his shirt, but he felt her smile against his chest. And her arms came up and wrapped around his waist, holding him gently. She relaxed slowly, the tension leaving her body bit by bit. After a little while, she pulled away.

"I reek." she said.

"Smell great to me," Bruce countered.

"I'm gonna shower."

"If I leave the jet, am I going to have to worry about you pulling a fast one on me?" he asked.

She smiled. "No. I'll stick around, I guess. I did promise that when this jet left, you'd be on it."

He smiled wryly—yes she had. She squeezed his hand and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Despite their easy banter, her heart was pounding in her chest.

Guilt and elation and joy and grief and fear flowed through her in fast forward, tumbling over each other and blending into a confusing, overwhelming mass of emotion.

She was staying. How had he convinced her to do that? She wracked her mind, trying to remember where in the conversation she had yielded. She couldn't recall. Her stomach flipped—were those butterflies? Or was it fear, at the thought of actually doing this? Oh god—she was actually going to do this. She clenched her fists and leaned over the sink, slightly dizzy.

Clint had lectured her about this. He would poke fun at her every time he saw her flirting casually with someone new.

 _You keep playing Nat, but one of these days some guy is going to come along and you're going to_ want _to be honest with him. To drop this façade and let him in. Then you're gonna try it and realize you have no idea how._

She had laughed him off. If only she had known.


	16. Oprah

Nat wrung her hair out and hung the towel up in the bathroom. She eyed a tank top she had dug out of the pile on the planning table. She hadn't worn it since arriving on the island. It had spaghetti straps, not like the ones she usually wore. It would show her scars. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Letting him see them? She pulled it over her head and tried to breathe through the anxiety that accompanied it.

Bruce had breakfast ready outside. He had plucked some bright orange and yellow flowers and put them into one of their wooden cups. Of course, he would be a romantic.

"Feel better?" he asked as she approached.

"Much," she smiled. He sat across from her and began serving himself food.

"You didn't go green last night," she mentioned casually as she set about serving herself. "Were you ever worried?"

"When do you mean? During the fun part, or the not so fun part?"

"Both," Natasha smiled wryly.

"The uh, fun part," Bruce's cheeks reddened. "I was a bit worried. I haven't tried anything . . . like that for a while."

"And?"

"I think I've come a ways since I first met the other guy," he shrugged evasively.

"And the other part?" Nat asked, hiding her enjoyment at his discomfort.

"Well, let's just say I had a compelling reason to keep my cool," his eyes twinkled as he said it.

Now it was Nat's turn to blush. "That's good," she stumbled.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"What made you change your mind?" Nat broke the silence.

"Huh?" Bruce asked.

"I was chasing you so hard before Ultron. You wanted nothing to do with me. Then last night. . .What gives?"

"Ok, I didn't want _nothing_ to do with you," Bruce countered. "I honestly didn't believe you were interested."

"Really?"

"I thought you were flirting!"

"I was," she smiled. "A lot."

"Yeah, I just thought, I don't know. That it was normal or something."

"You thought I was easy? Flirted with any old guy who came along?"

"Steve might have mentioned something along those lines. . ."

"Excuse me!?" Her eyes flashed.

"No, no! He didn't, I meant to say, it wasn't like that—" Bruce spluttered. "He uhh, just mentioned that you guys had, uhh, worked together, and he, uhh, I don't know—"

"Oh my god. The look on your face right now," she crowed with laughter while he glared at her. "We worked together right after New York—that was when we found out Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD. When we were on the run there were a few times where posing as a couple meant evading detection."

"So you didn't. . ."

"I'm not sure what idea Rogers got," Nat replied smoothly, "but I prefer my men a little less. . . peppy."

Bruce spat out his coffee and covered his mouth with his hand to hide his laughter.

"If you ever tell him I said that I will deny it," Nat threatened him across the table. He held up his hands in mock defeat.

"Ok, ok, your secret's safe with me," he chortled.

"But that doesn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Why did you change your mind?"

"Oh. Uhh, I mean, I never _didn't_ want to be with you."

"Oh?" Nat raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, not that I was in love or anything!" Bruce backpedaled. "I mean, not that I wouldn't be, it just uhh—"

"I'm messing with you." Nat deadpanned.

"Ok, yes, well," Bruce stammered. "I just didn't think it would ever happen. Like, ever. Just. . . it didn't seem in the realm of possibility."

"Why not?"

"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice heavy with disbelief. "Natasha, look at you. Jesus. I meant what I said last night—you are this, this, this all-encompassing vibrant ideal of a human being. We were not—are not—in the same league."

"Are you calling yourself ugly?" Natasha leaned forward onto her hands and knees and crawled over to where he sat.

"No, I just, uhh. . ." Bruce faded out as Nat draped her leg over his lap, straddling him.

"Because if so," she whispered in his ear, "I have a bone to pick with you."

"You can pick however many bones you'd like," he breathed. Then he blushed, realizing what he had said. "I mean, uhh—"

She kissed him, not letting him finish his flustered sentence. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer. She smelled of shampoo and the bouquet of flowers that had sat on the crate between them, now forgotten.

After a moment, Nat pulled gently away. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "you ready to go practice?"

"What?" he asked, dazed.

"Come on," she stood up over him and held her hand out. "I think you could use some kickboxing right now."

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. Come on big guy, up and at em."

He groaned, but let her drag him to his feet. He stood bent over for a second, waiting for the blood to return to his head. She was already walking briskly north along the beach when he looked up.

"Can't we have a break? Some sort of rest or something?" he asked as he followed her. "Last night was kind of exhausting."

"Work first, play later." She turned and looked at him through her lashes. "Unless you didn't want to play at all?"

Bruce reddened. "You are cruel."

"What else is new?" Nat laughed.

When they were a safe distance up the beach, she set her stance and held up her hands, ready to begin. He looked at her grudgingly again, clearly distracted, before holding up his fists and punching, once, twice, again.

Thirty-five minutes later and he was gasping as they sparred. Bruce had developed a leaner, wiry sort of muscling on the island, and he was starting to make Natasha actually have to work for her sparring victories.

He kicked her in her quad, hitting the mark right where he was supposed to. She smiled and hit him once in the ribs, again on his shoulder, once in his bicep, and then kicked him behind his knees, dropping him to the ground. It was all at fifty percent speed, but he groaned and pantomimed extreme pain anyways. Her 50% was still pretty damn hard.

"Take pity on an old man!" he exclaimed, breathing hard. The sand was wet beneath him—the tide had crept in while they worked, lapping just inches away from where he rested his elbow. It was a nice counter to the increasingly hot midday sun.

"Here," Nat reached out to help him up. He took her hand, but as he used it to haul himself up, he swiveled on his feet, whirling her around until she reeled backwards into the water, squealing.

"I can't believe you did that!" she shrieked, landing with a splash in the shallows. In a moment she was up, prowling towards him. He backed away slowly, but he was no match for her. She yanked him into the water, laughing maniacally as he fell.

"You're in for it now," he threatened, setting out after her.

They kept splashing each other, wading out further in the water until they were at waist height. Natasha tried to dunk Bruce, but he grabbed her around her legs and lifted her in the air instead. They both seemed to realize in the same moment how close they were to each other.

Bruce lowered her gently, sliding her along his front to slow her descent. When her feet touched the sand again, she didn't move away. She looked up at him to find him smiling. Nothing behind it, no second thoughts or inhibitions, just a happy smile. A playing in the ocean, laughing in the sun kind of smile. She leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss tasted of salt, and she could feel his lips grinning under hers still. After a minute, standing there in the water wasn't enough. Nat grabbed his hand and pulled him behind her, running back to the cabana. She giggled as she ran, sand flying beneath her feet, water dripping from her hair.

It was fast, and fun, and so simple—they shed their wet clothes as they went til they were down to their underwear and lying on the reed mattress inside the cabana, kissing once more. Bruce trailed his fingers down her neck and Natasha sighed, letting the buzzing feeling of it run through her body. Her heart raced and she was almost giddy, reveling in the simple pleasure of each touch. It was when she began reaching down towards his boxers that Bruce froze.

"Are you gonna go green?" Nat asked, suddenly cautious.

"No, it's not that, it's just—do you have a condom?"

"What?"

"A condom. We have to use one."

"I thought we covered this already."

"Not for that. I don't know—the radiation. I'm not sure if it's transmitted. . .that way. I've never tested."

Natasha rolled onto her back and peered at the ceiling. Of course. They lay there for a second, both mourning the moment, when Natasha sat up suddenly.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"We have a Quinjet parked right outside."

"You really think Tony Stark put condoms in a Quinjet?" Bruce asked, his voice thick with doubt. They looked at each other for a moment before simultaneously leaping to their feet and running outside. Of course he had.

It took them approximately 2 minutes to find them—in the compartment Tony had specially built for his suit. Natasha turned around, victorious with the foil packet in hand. Bruce smiled and reached for her again. Nat had forgotten how fun just kissing could be. Actually _liking_ the person made it so much more enjoyable. After a minute, Bruce took her hand, ready to head back up to the cabana. Nat had a different idea.

She kissed him again, pressing her body against his and pushing gently, driving him backwards until he bumped into the planning table. Soon he had no choice but to lay back against the pile of clothes Nat had been sorting through earlier.

They never did end up making it back to the cabana.


	17. Proactive Baldness

Bruce dragged his finger slowly up Nat's spine and she shivered, feeling it trace over each vertebra. She was lying against him, and she lifted her fingers and started walking them across the scars on his chest from his time as the Hulk.

"I wonder if the hair will ever grow back here," she whispered, her fingers gently tracing each one.

Bruce didn't say anything. Nat looked up at him and saw his pensive expression.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" she asked.

"I just didn't know I could do that," he mused. "I remember after the experiment—when I first became him. I thought my life was over. Funny how high the high feels compared to how low the low felt."

"This better be a high," Nat mock-threatened. Bruce smiled wryly, never ceasing the absent dragging of his finger up and down her spine.

"This is the highest of highs. I didn't think I could feel like this."

Nat leaned into him, draping her arm over his body and holding tight. She wanted to go back in time and undo the ways the world had hurt him. She shook her head as she realized how intense that was—she was in deep. She flinched involuntarily at the thought.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing," she replied. She didn't know how to tell him how strongly she felt. She didn't know if she should. Her stomach turned at the thought of ruining this feeling, the relief and pleasure and joy she had fought so hard for.

They both jumped as a crackling static came over the comm unit of the jet in the cockpit. Nat sat bolt upright and stared at the pilot's seat—empty—and the instrument panel in front of it.

"What the fuck?" she said as she rose from the table, absently grabbing one of Bruce's shirts and pulling it over her head as she walked over to the unit.

The static came on again, and then a projection flickered up from the comm unit, blinking at first and then solid. It was Steve, but not Steve as they knew him now. It was right after he came out of the ice, his suit still old fashioned, a tight leather mask constricting his face. He fuzzed out and suddenly it was Coulson, his stern face and crisp suit bringing a pang of nostalgia and grief. The image flickered, and Nat saw her own face, her hair shorter than it was now, wearing the last edition of her suit—it was a frozen image of the message she had sent the Hulk, asking him to come back. Bruce looked away bashfully at that one. Quickly it fuzzed out, and a new person took shape in her place. It was Tony. The projection faltered, then solidified, finally taking form. This wasn't a memory or past recording—his lined face and grey temples were recent, his clothing casual. He spoke out blindly to the space in front of him—he couldn't see them.

"So, we're going to ignore the fact that you've absconded with my multi-million dollar jet and gone incognito for over a month now, Agent Romanoff," his voice was cold. "I have spent the last 72 hours trying to hack my own security protocols and let me tell you it is exhausting trying to be smarter than myself. I am in no mood to banter so you better listen up, wherever the fuck you are.

"We're going to assume you're not dead, and furthermore, that you did such a foolish, selfish thing in the name of retrieving my favorite big friendly green scientist for me—you shouldn't have, honestly, my birthday isn't for months. If that is the case, however, tell the oaf to listen up too—not the green one, the other one."

Tony's face was steely and the circles under his eyes were visible even through the projection. Nat looked at Bruce, who had pulled on a pair of pants and come up behind her. His arms were crossed, and he didn't look happy.

"Do not try and turn me off, either," Tony continued. "In fact, it would be preferable if you turned yourself on, because then I could say exactly what I'm thinking to your face and perhaps get some small sliver of pleasure in the inevitable shame I know you must be feeling from stealing my fucking plane."

Nat reached out and turned on their own comm unit. Bruce opened his mouth as if to protest, but didn't stop her.

"Ah! She lives!" Tony exclaimed, his eyes fixing on her.

"Hi Tony," Nat said.

"You've got Banner, right? You didn't just defect and take my billion dollar technology back to the KGB?"

Nat rolled her eyes, but Bruce stepped forward, into view of the camera.

"Ah." Tony said flatly, eying him up and down. "Nice. . .pelt. You better not have touched my condoms."

Nat was glad for the blue overlay of the projections, because it was the only thing that covered the beet-red color Bruce turned.

"Hi Tony," he said guiltily.

"I hate to break up the canoodling, but we need you to come in. You can honeymoon later. Preferably without stealing my jet."

"What are you talking about?" Nat asked, clearly not pleased.

"We've got something of a code red going on back here. Ya know, in the real world."

"What's going on?" Bruce asked.

"Remember our favorite Asgardian asshole?"

"Do you mean Thor or Loki?" Bruce asked.

"Oh, so you do have a sense of humor? Good. Let's put it to work.

"For not the first, nor the second, nor even the third time, our good ol' pal Loki has shown up again. Or rather, another very large, slimy space armada has shown up in his stead."

Tony flicked some gadget he was holding and an image popped up in the projection: some huge animal that looked like a cross between an elephant and a squid.

"Isn't that what your suit is for? And Thor? Sounds like a family issue. Best let them handle it," Bruce reasoned.

"Yeah, wasn't Loki up on Asgard paying for his crimes or something?" Natasha asked dryly.

"I think you are failing to understand—we have a large ship of space monsters heading for the middle of Wisconsin right now. And when I say large, I don't mean on a human scale. These things are coming in at twelve feet tall, a couple tons a piece. SHIELD would prefer we cleaned this up quietly and without bringing in human troops—or as I like to call them, liabilities."

"This is what we've been training the new guys for," Nat countered. "Let Wanda loose on them, she'll be fine."

"She took care of the first ship."

"Two ships?" Bruce asked.

"As far as we can tell, yes. Thor is off-world handling the politics, but we get to beat the brawn. Wanda took a hit. She'll be fine, by the way, since I know you were both so worried. Vision is down for the count sitting by her bedside looking mournful. This isn't something that bird boy and Rhodes can handle. Cap is tired. We need you to come in."

Nat crossed her arms and looked at Bruce. She knew he felt the same little twist in his gut at the thought of Wanda being hurt, even after what she had done to him. She also knew he had to be worried. Wisconsin was stateside, remote but not rural. If the Hulk wasn't handled, he could seriously hurt people. And as backwards as it was, the US government would probably care about any US lives lost much more than any in South Africa.

"How far out are they?" Nat asked, not looking away from Bruce. He was pensive, rubbing his hands together. She knew he didn't want to go.

"We've got about two days, according to our projections. Of course, they'd be better if they were your projections, Dr. Banner—thermonuclear astrophysics never did quite tickle my fancy quite like it did yours."

"How many?" Bruce asked grimly.

"Last ship had over eighty. We're still clearing the field—that number is maybe half of what we're looking at here."

"Where?"

"Washington—out east, in the desert. I guess they like W states or something."

Nat chewed her lip for a moment, looking at Bruce. She knew he wanted to say no. She also knew he wouldn't.

"We'll be there. Drop the coordinates," she said.

"It would help if you turned off stealth mode."

"Sorry Stark, no can do," Nat shook her head. "Don't worry, I'll bring your baby home safe."

She flipped off the projection then, crossing her arms and watching Bruce again. He crossed his arms too, mirroring her.

"You know I'm not ready," he began. "He's not ready."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't sound like we have much of a choice."

"Dammit Nat, _this_ is what I was hoping to avoid," he turned and walked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Nat felt her cheeks burn. She had brought this to him. She knew she had. He wasn't an option to the team before she flew there and made him one.

"We can do this, Bruce. We'll go out there, we'll land, we'll fight, I'll calm the other guy down and we can hop back on the jet and be anywhere in the world before Stark has a chance to say no."

"You know that isn't true."

"When will you trust me?"

"It's not you I don't trust!" he exclaimed. Nat looked at him, her gaze level.

"People need you, Bruce."

"No! They don't!" Bruce countered. "Look, I just need more time—" he cut off and his eyes widened.

"We have two days," Nat began before noticing the expression on his face. She felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. "Bruce," she began slowly. "Just breathe. Breathe through it. This is nothing."

"This is everything I wanted to avoid," he choked out, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to calm down.

"Bruce, walk out of the jet, come on now, let's get out on the beach in the open air," Natasha tried to keep her voice measured and calm, but she was panicking. If he hulked out in the jet they were fucked.

He let out a snarl and the green exploded down his neck, along his arm, his bicep expanding in diameter as his fingertips changed color. He staggered out onto the beach and Nat followed him, watching wide-eyed. He lurched towards the cabana and seemed to explode. The Hulk was out in what seemed like an instant. He grabbed the struts holding the cabana up over the water and yanked them, bringing the bamboo structure crashing down into the ocean. He turned towards the jet and snarled. He hurled one of the bamboo stilts like a javelin and it sailed past Nat, clattering onto the beach twenty yards down.

Without a second thought, Nat pressed the button to close the belly of the jet and ran into the cockpit. She flipped the quick-launch switch and toggled the controls necessary to get up into the air as fast as possible.

It wasn't fast enough—just as she felt the engine kick in and the lift begin, the plane lurched to the right, something massive hitting its left side. Nat didn't think, flipping open a red protective cover and pushing the turbo button. Desperate times called for desperate measures—she felt her stomach crash back into her spine and her ears pop as the jet launched forward, scraping the tops of the trees as it rose over the island, loosing the Hulk. Nat inspected the systems monitor and was relieved to see he hadn't done any significant damage. She released the turbo button and slowed the ascent, wheeling back around over the beach where the wreckage of the cabana lay. Where was he?

As she hovered over the beach, she noticed huge clouds of birds lifting and flying from the jungle. Squinting her eyes, she could see a pattern, almost like the wake of a boat, in the tops of the trees. As the Hulk ran through the thick rainforest, the trees bent and swayed behind him, marking his path clear as day. Nat set the jet's trackers to auto-follow the motion and stepped back into the cabin to change into her suit. She had a feeling that she'd need to be wearing more than an old t-shirt when she faced the Hulk this time.


	18. OOF

"Oh c'mon, go to the beach," Nat muttered under her breath. She sat in the cockpit watching the instruments on the dashboard. After an hour of smashing through the jungle, the Hulk had settled nearly a kilometer into the interior of the island, away from the shore. He hadn't moved in twenty minutes.

If she had had her way, Nat would have waited him out rather than force herself to trudge through the jungle another time, but the vague alien threat Tony had promised loomed over her. She'd have to rough it. Again.

"Fine, be that way," she muttered, touching the jet down on the beach, as close to his location as she could. She didn't pack anything this time, just setting out into the dark rainforest in her suit.

As she walked, she filtered through what she'd say. The Hulk seemed happier here—maybe he'd be calm again. Even as the thought crossed her mind she threw it away. That cabana had been his home for months and he'd destroyed it without a second thought. He was clearly pretty pissed.

He didn't like Bruce's feelings—that much had become clear. He thought that they made Bruce weak. A pit settled in her stomach as she realized the odds—she was coming to make him leave the island he loved, and she had been at the center of Bruce's most turbulent feelings in the past few days. He wasn't going to be happy to see her.

She found him after only an hour of trekking. He was pulverizing a tree when she saw him—at least it was loud enough to cover her approach. She watched silently as he smashed it between the ground and a huge ebony tree next to him. Once it had shattered, he jumped on it, pounding the remaining shards into wood chips. When he finished, he stood there for a moment, breathing hard and looking around for his next target. No time like the present.

"Hey, big guy," Nat called out from behind him. She tried to make her voice melodic, but it cracked instead. He turned around and froze—she watched his nostrils flare as his eyes found her.

He roared loudly and charged at her.

"Shit," Nat muttered under her breath. She turned and ran around the ebony tree, pulling one of her pistols from its holster on her thigh. She disengaged the safety as she ran, holding it low to the ground. As she ran she approached a large fallen tree, rotting with age. She slid under it, twisting as she did so to face him. He jumped over the log, and as he soared above her, she fired into his feet, clearing the pistol's magazine in six quick shots. The Hulk roared as he landed and slid away from her, his momentum slow to stop. Nat re-holstered the pistol and grabbed at her bracelet, aiming and firing a taser into him at near point-blank range. He roared again and fell to the ground as she clambered out from beneath the tree, back the way they had run.

She rotated the wrist unit to another taser as she ran. Her mind was spinning, trying to think of a way out of this. The last time she had really faced off with the Hulk had been the helicarrier, and that hadn't ended well. The only reason she survived was because Thor had swung through and saved her ass. She heard the Hulk roar again as he got to his feet and set off after her.

The ebony tree he had been smashing his other tree against was tall and imposing, without any branches in the first twenty feet. Nat ran past it—she didn't have time to fire a climbing line with him so close on her heels. When she heard a crack just behind her, she fired another taser over her shoulder. He bellowed in rage and crashed to the ground, almost brushing her heels. She knew it would only buy her a precious few seconds head start.

Nat scanned the jungle as she ran, looking left and right for a good tree to climb, anything to get above him. She found one about twenty yards ahead and twisted her gauntlet to shoot her climbing line. She could hear him up and crashing through the jungle again behind her.

She fired the line as she got close and used it to walk herself up the tree. She passed the lowest branches, seeking out a thick one about twenty feet up. She let the line retract as she scrabbled up more branches, only stopping when her lungs quit on her and she was a solid forty feet off the ground. No way he'd be able to grab her at this height. She hugged the trunk as she caught her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Her line had caught on a branch below; she shook it a few times, trying to free it.

He ran into the small clearing where the tree stood after a moment. He quieted, then looked up and saw her. He growled, leaping and smashing into the tree trunk. Nat heard a loud crack and felt the branch shift beneath her, swaying from the force of his blow. _Shit_. It must be rotten.

She jiggled the line again and felt it finally come loose from whatever had hooked it. She watched it snake back inside slowly. Not fast enough. The tree lurched beneath her and she clung to the trunk to keep her balance, feeling it sway, leaning further over. One more hit and she'd be a goner. She watched the line retract, just a few feet left. . .

The tree lurched again and a massive crack signaled its defeat. Nat's stomach fell out from under her as the tree gave way, toppling over. She blindly shot the climbing line into space, unable to aim as she fell with the tree. The Hulk howled, stomping towards her, but thankfully the line caught, and Nat swung over him, fast.

He swatted at her like a fly, turning on his heel to watch her swing away. The line had caught on a massive beech tree, nearly three meters wide at its base. Nat's swing was wild and uncontrolled—she was heading straight for the trunk, at speed. She crashed hard, her body making a low thud as it hit. She grunted, her left arm and side absorbing most of the impact in a jolt of blinding pain.

She was hanging from her bracelet against the trunk, her feet not touching anything. There was a branch at waist level, and she used her feet to edge herself towards it, draping herself across it at her midsection. The ribs on her left side screamed in agony as she put her weight on her stomach—she must have broken one.

Down below, the Hulk bellowed in fury—this was another tree he could do nothing against. He pounded at the wood while Nat edged herself slowly onto the branch, gritting her teeth at the pain. Thankfully, the branch was wide enough for her to sit on—she leaned against the massive trunk and took a moment to catch her breath, letting the Hulk tire himself out howling below. She could feel her ribs grind as her lungs rose and fell, sending aftershocks of pain into her with every movement.

"Ok, I think I've had enough," she called out. "Are you done too? Cause I'm beat."

The Hulk quieted below. She could hear him huffing for breath, but he didn't roar again.

"I know I'm bad news. Sorry." Nat called down. She tried to sit up, but a cloud of static entered her vision and she slumped back against the trunk instead. "We gotta go though. I don't know what to tell you. I don't want to lie."

She heard the Hulk grunt below.

"We can come back here. If you want," she offered. "I don't know if you'll believe me or not when I say that, but I mean it. You guys are stuck with each other—no getting around that. It's about time he offered you your fair share, right?"

The Hulk didn't reply. Nat needed to see his face—she had to know what she was up against. She craned her neck to look below and saw that there was another branch, maybe ten feet down, blocking her view of the Hulk. She hadn't realized how high up she was—nearly sixty feet in the air. She looked up and saw the hold the climbing line had gotten on the branch above her. It was secure.

She bit her lip and tipped herself over the edge of the branch. The air went out of her with a whoosh as the line caught her weight, her right shoulder burning as it stretched too far. The line lowered her slowly until she felt her toes touch the next branch. She slumped down again with a huff of hair, her left side on fire, her right arm useless. The black fuzz took a little longer to clear from her vision this time.

"I know he's gonna feel awful when he sees I'm hurt," Nat said, smiling to herself. "I'll have to convince him it wasn't you that did it—just my own stupidity. I know you don't like his feelings, especially when they're bad."

She craned her neck again and watched the Hulk as he spat on the ground below, curling his lip with disgust. He seemed small from so high up.

"But I don't think he's going to feel bad much anymore," she called down again.

"Liar!" the Hulk snarled.

"Liar? Me? Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Liar. Hurt Banner."

Nat bit her lip. "Yeah. I did. I have. I might still—but never on purpose." She looked down and saw the Hulks face, glowering up at her. She took a moment, trying to figure out what to say.

"Do you know what love is?" she asked.

The Hulk growled.

"I was always taught that it was weakness. That if I ever felt it, it allowed those who wanted to hurt me an opportunity to do so that they hadn't had before. And it seemed like everybody wanted to hurt me. I feel like you can relate to that."

The Hulk grunted.

"So, I wasn't very good at it. Then I met Clint—you know, the bow and arrow guy. He was one of the first people ever to not hurt me when he had the chance. And that was terrifying. I didn't understand it. If you had the chance, you took the kill shot. That's what I was always taught."

She took a deep breath, the pain clouding her vision again.

"And slowly, Clint showed me that holding that power, but not using it, not abusing it, was the best feeling of all. It's this terrifying, dizzying feeling. I don't even know how to describe it—trust."

The Hulk snorted, clearly not following her. She peered down at him.

"I want you to trust me, when I say that we'll come back here. Or go where you'd like to go, every so often. It can't be permanent—you gotta share with Banner—but it can be sometimes."

He growled, low.

"I know it's a lot to ask. But I need you to trust me. And I need to trust you too."

The Hulk snorted with disdain.

"That feeling, trust? Bruce feels it, for me. And I feel it for him. And even saying that to you now scares me, so you gotta keep it a secret, ok?" Nat laughed, suddenly teary-eyed. She couldn't tell whether it was from the pain or the intensity of her feelings.

She listened as the Hulk stood beneath her, his breathing uneven.

"I trust him. And he trusts me. And if I ever break that trust, I hope you'll be the first one to make me pay for it. In fact, I'm counting on you. So is he."

The Hulk huffed once. Nat looked down and saw his face—it was grim, but no longer enraged. He merely scowled at her.

"Sometimes you'll have to fight, but sometimes you'll get to just live. And when the fight is over, I'll need my Bruce back, and I need to trust that you'll give him to me. Think you can do that, big guy?"

Nat twisted over to look down at him, wanting to see his face again. As she did, she felt something crack in her side and her vision blacked out. She lurched, her arms wheeling, grasping for anything to keep her balance. They came up short, and she fell.

She heard the buzzing sound of the climbing line extending to its full length. She felt the painful, yanking jolt as she hit the end of the line and her shoulder popped loudly, absorbing the shock. She heard the line as it snapped, over-tasked with the events of the day and the weight of her fall. Her stomach dropped out from under her as she fell once more. Then, something warm and large caught her, grasped her gently, and lowered her to the ground.

She opened her eyes blearily to see the Hulks glowering face standing over her, his nostrils flaring.

"Trust," he harrumphed before turning away.

Nat lay there, feeling the waves of pain from her ribs and shoulder where the climbing line had caught her weight. The jungle felt eerily quiet around her, a dull roar fading in and out in her ears. She could feel her pulse in every place where she hurt, pushing sinew and muscle away to let the blood flow through.

"Nat?" she heard Bruce's voice. She tried to roll over, to stand up so she could nonchalantly reassure him that everything was ok. Pain seared down her side, however, and she slumped back, biting her lip to keep from screaming.

"Oh my god," she heard him stumble, tripping and then crawling over to her. His face appeared in her vision, frantic.

"Are you ok? What the hell happened? Nat, I am so sorry," he rushed, panicked.

"I'm fine," she whispered, afraid to breathe in too deeply and move her ribs more. "I think I just broke a rib. And before you freak, it wasn't you, it was me. I swung into a tree like a dumbass."

"Escaping me." Bruce retorted. "We need to get you to the jet."

"Help me up," she commanded.

"Nat—"

"Now."

He waited a moment, clearly considering how he might defy her, but then held out a hand. She leaned on it heavily, gritting her teeth and pulling herself up to a sitting position.

"Do you trust me?" she asked, looking Bruce in the eye.

He was distraught, the guilt and agony plain in his eyes. He hesitated before quieting and finally whispering, "yes."

"The Hulk saved me. He caught me when I fell."

Bruce didn't say anything, chewing on that.

"I offered him a deal—more time out. In exchange for battles and letting you return to me afterwards."

"Nat, you can't know—"

"You're right. I can't. I don't. But I trust. And that's what this whole thing is about Bruce—trust. You said you trusted me, right?"

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly.

"Then do."

He sat back on his heels, pursing his lips and looking off into the distance.

"If I hurt you Natasha. . ."

"I trust you."

He looked at her. She looked back, her gaze level. She could see his anxiety. But she could also see his desire to believe her. She chose to believe he would.

"Help me stand up, before I pass out like this," she instructed, holding out her hand for assistance. He helped her up and she leaned against him heavily. He went to lift her right arm over his shoulder to support her on the walk back, but she grimaced.

"What else is hurt?" he panicked.

"May have yanked this shoulder a bit falling on the climbing line. No biggie."

Bruce groaned, but swapped sides without a word, gingerly giving her ribs space yet supporting her at her shoulder as she walked next to him, only stumbling occasionally on their trek back to the jet.

"We're not going to Wisconsin now, right?" he asked as they walked.

"Of course we're going."

"Nat, you're hurt!"

"I'll stay in the jet, provide air support. You'll be needed on the ground."

"I can't believe this."

"I said the work would be hard. This is what I meant. A little bit of tape on these ribs and I'll be good as new."

"And the arm?"

"Only need one arm to fly."

Bruce grumbled but didn't say anything. Nat knew the come-down must have taken a toll on him too, but he didn't say a word, stoically supporting her on the way back. She almost blacked out twice, her legs buckling beneath her, but she didn't tell him that. She knew he'd only feel worse. Plus, she had a gloating feeling of victory in her stomach. The Hulk trusted her. And she trusted him.

Back on the jet, the diagnostic wand declared that Nat had three broken ribs, a bruised spleen, and a severely dislocated shoulder. Bruce blanched as F.R.I.D.A.Y's even voice declared each injury nonchalantly. Nat sent him to get her some clothes while the popped the shoulder back in herself, biting down on her cheek until she drew blood to keep from screaming. She had dealt with worse before—this was nothing too serious.

The jet was quick to dispense some hardcore pain killers. Nat gulped them down. She insisted they get the jet in the air and heading back towards the states before letting Bruce tend to her ribs. He protested, but allowed her to set a trajectory and enable autopilot—even with her ribs and shoulder busted, Nat was formidable.

Once they were finally flying, she walked back into the cabin and allowed him to tend to her. He let out a whoosh of air as she unzipped her suit and exposed her left side to him. She looked down and exhaled herself—she had never seen that color purple under her own skin before.

"Pretty impressive, huh?" she smiled.

"This is my worst nightmare," Bruce muttered. She could hear the horror in his voice.

"Hey, I did this one to myself. Honestly. I'm not going to argue it with you. Just believe me, ok?"

He didn't say a word, winding the tape around her midsection in silence. With the pain killers, Nat felt only a dull ache. She smiled as he wrapped to let him know she was alright. When he finished, he got up and walked away, wringing his hands. He began pacing on the other side of the planning table where they had lain just that morning. It felt like it had been much longer.

Nat stood up and sidled over to him, gently grasping his hands in hers, stopping their frantic motion. "Hey," she whispered. She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the guilt eating at his voice.

"It's ok. I'm ok. Truly."

"If I hurt you Nat. . ."

"You didn't, and you won't. Trust me?"

He nodded wordlessly. She leaned up and kissed him, winding her good arm around his neck. She felt his hands gingerly grasp her waist, afraid to hurt her.

"Then let's go save the world," she whispered into his ear, smiling.

She looked him in the eye and watched him give in. A small smile spread across his features.

"Ok," he agreed.


End file.
